


Fragments: Part One

by GoodHunterAnais, Slippin_Jimmy



Series: The Skywalker Legend: Fragments [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst/Fun/Action/Politics/All the Other Moods You'd Expect from a Prequel Rewrite, Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Gen, Interlude, Space Opera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-06 08:51:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16829209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodHunterAnais/pseuds/GoodHunterAnais, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slippin_Jimmy/pseuds/Slippin_Jimmy
Summary: Supplemental stories that bridge the gap between the main installments of The Skywalker Legend: Before the Dark Times. Whether they focus on main characters or new players, they're not required reading but will definitely enhance your experience with the main series! Each chapter is a self-contained story focusing on a particular aspect of the galaxy/our cast.





	1. The Spoiler Effect

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to _The Skywalker Legend: Fragments_ , supplemental stories and extras that bridge the gap between the main installments of prequel-trilogy rewrite _The Skywalker Legend: Before the Dark Times_. Whether they focus on main characters or new players, they're not required reading but will definitely enhance your experience with the main series!
> 
> One-shot stories will be posted twice a week, with eight installments total. And now, without further ado, we take you to the first of the lot: a very pivotal election day.

Bail Organa’s sigh of exasperation reverberated throughout the Senate Antechamber. He slouched, caf mug in hand, behind the grandiose desk meant for the Chancellor of the Republic. The velvet curtains adorning the curved walls of the circular chamber were meant to invoke calm thoughts, but nothing could relax him today.

Today was the special election.

Three days ago, Bail’s Senate colleagues had voted to strip him of his role as Chancellor. Though he still technically held the title, it was functionally useless—his Vice Chair had assumed all his roles and responsibilities until a new Chancellor could be seated. This usually took weeks—weeks of campaigning, of candidates trading political favors and hidden secrets in order to rise to the top of the pack. But there was a war on, and everyone was understandably in a hurry to pick a new, permanent leader. 

So here Bail was, three days later, sitting in the room beneath the Senate chamber for the final time. It held three desks at even intervals along the perimeter: one for the Speaker of the Senate, one for the Vice Chair, and one for the Chancellor. In the center sat the platform which would soon carry Bail and his two associates up into the Senate Chamber. 

The desks in this room were far more practical than the one Bail had spent most of his term at—the opulent stone-carved behemoth in the Executive Suite. That desk was for ceremony, for signing legislation or meeting dignitaries while photographers looked on. The desk down here was meant for work. On a typical day when the Senate was in session, it was cluttered with flimsiplast notes and datapads and writing styluses and cups of something caffeinated. 

Today, it was nearly empty. It had been cleaned out over the weekend, much like his office upstairs—the boxes sat in storage limbo, unable to take up residence in his Senator’s office until he’d officially seen out his duty. Every part of being Chancellor, from the fancy residence to the security escorts to the ability to shape galactic policy had been stripped away. All he had left now was the title, meaningless as it was.

“Hello, Bail.”

_ Perhaps they’ve taken even that,  _ the man from Alderaan thought. He turned his gaze upward, ending his staring contest with his caf mug, to meet the eyes of a Bothan man standing in the chamber’s entry archway. The Bothan’s cream-colored fur rippled as he stepped into the room, his nose turning upward and his ears twitching as he entered Bail’s presence. 

“Good morning, Fosc,” Bail replied, rising to his feet. “I have to admit, I’m a bit surprised to see you.” 

“Of course you are,” the Bothan hissed. “You kept me out of every other important moment in your time as Chancellor, why change now?” 

Bail’s eyes narrowed as he stared down the Bothan. “Well well, Mister Vice Chair. Someone’s a bit salty. Disappointed that you didn’t get to pass any meaningful legislation during your one weekend in power?”

Fosc Fey’lya opened his mouth to fire back, then paused as if to reconsider. The Bothan took a deep breath, nodded slightly, then spoke. “I am honored to serve as Acting Chancellor, if only for a time. The decision to speed up the vote process in light of the war was a wise one.” The Bothan strolled confidently over to his own desk opposite Bail’s, then shot the human a grim smile. “You should’ve consulted with me before doing anything about Had Abbadon, Bail. This may have gone differently.”

Bail snorted. “Is that so? What would you have done, Fey’lya?” As he waited for an answer, he downed the remaining contents of his caf mug. 

“I have many people in this building that owe me,” Fosc said. “We could have swayed the Defense Committee vote, perhaps. Gotten the Senate to sign off on some sort of action in the Had system.”

“You speak with the benefit of hindsight,” Bail said with a shake of his head. “Besides, I know you well enough to know you’d have thrown me under the bus as soon as things went south. ‘Consulting with you’ wouldn’t have changed where I ended up.”

“Look, Organa,” Fosc spat, slamming a fist on his desk. The fur on the Bothan’s arms was visibly raised, and his tone decidedly more hostile. He jabbed a clawed finger in Bail’s direction. “I wound up in this Vice Chair job precisely because a sizeable portion of the Senate was worried about  _ you _ . They feared the husband of a queen might end up ruling like a monarch himself. Making decisions all by himself without bothering to check if it was allowed first. Turns out they were right. It’s not my fault you decided to live up to their image of you—”

“Gentlemen!” a new voice boomed. The baritone call of Mas Amedda cut through Bail and Fosc’s argument, drawing their attention away from each other and toward the blue-skinned Chagrian standing in the doorway. Amedda was dressed in the ceremonial garb of the Speaker of the Senate, and the horns draping down from each of his shoulders twitched as he spoke. “It would be appreciated if you’d both quit bickering like schoolboys. There is Senate business to conduct.” 

Sheepishly, Chancellor and Vice Chair alike nodded as Amedda moved across the room towards the central podium, his floor-length robes giving the impression that he was gliding across the tile. As the imposing figure stepped up into the podium platform and took a seat in the leftmost chair, Bail turned to look at Fosc. 

“You don’t have to do this,” the Chancellor offered as he stepped up into the decorated cluster of seats. In response, the Bothan let a puff of air escape his snout. 

“Unfortunately, Bail, I do.” 

“I’m serious,” Bail said as he settled into the central chair of the platform. “It’s no trouble to just skip over your speaking time in the proceedings. I’ll just yield the floor directly back to the Speaker. I don’t think anyone would hold it against you if you weren’t sitting next to me.”

“My constituents would,” Fey’lya grumbled as he sat himself down to the right of Bail. “Political cowardice is not valued on Bothawui. Me skipping this ceremony polled only slightly worse than sitting back in my old Senate seat in protest.” 

Bail raised an eyebrow, almost impressed. “You . . . conducted a poll over this?” 

“Some of us have careers to salvage, Organa,” Fosc sneered. “As I said: I have to do this.” 

“Quiet, please,” Mas Amedda’s voice rumbled as the Speaker leaned over to address Fosc and Bail. The Chagrian turned to the jet black protocol droid seated in a lower section of the podium platform. “Send us up.” 

As the platform rose and the ceiling of the Antechamber irised open, Bail Organa braced himself for the worst. He gritted his teeth in anticipation of the boos and jeers his Senate colleagues were likely to throw at him. He hadn’t been prepared when it had happened during the vote-of-no-confidence session. Bracing himself, he supposed, would make it easier. 

It never came. 

The Chancellor was instead greeted by a thousand icy stares. As the central podium ascended into the Senate rotunda, Bail found himself wishing he could melt into his chair.

The massive arena Bail was being elevated into was lined with hundreds of toroid repulsorpods. Each pod housed a delegation from a Republic world, and each delegation glared with cool aggression at Bail. He could see the stares of the people in front of him. The stares of those behind him he could feel prickling along the back of his neck. Booing would have felt better.

Even Mon Mothma and her staff from Chandrila looked furious with him. Whether the senator was play-acting for the sake of appearances or was actually upset with him, Bail couldn’t be certain—either would be warranted. Either way, it didn’t really matter. This time tomorrow, he would merely be the Senator from Alderaan. Hardly a worthy target of the entire Senate’s ire.  _ Small mercies. _

There were only three repulsorpods whose occupants did not seem to want to kill Bail: the three that hovered in the center of the Senate chamber, having broken off from the walls—the three repulsorpods containing the candidates to replace Bail as Chancellor. It only made sense, Bail supposed, that these three individuals weren’t upset with him in this moment. His blunder had given each of them a shot at becoming the leader of the free galaxy.

He eyed the leftmost pod’s occupant. Sapir of Kuat stood tall, the feathers of her head-crest a gentle green—a sign of calmness, if Bail remembered correctly. This hue faded away to gray as Sapir turned and met Bail’s gaze. The Chancellor offered the avian Fosh woman a gentle nod; her eyes narrowed in response.

A call of “good morning” dragged Bail’s attention back towards Mas Amedda. The Speaker’s voice, now amplified by microphones within the podium, resonated throughout the Senate Chamber. A mumbled chorus of responses answered Mas his greeting, and any senators that had been standing in their repulsorpods moved to take a seat. 

“Mister Chancellor, Mister Vice Chair, esteemed members of the Galactic Senate,” Mas Amedda began once everyone was seated, “we have gathered today for a floor vote to select a new Supreme Chancellor of the Republic. This special election will follow the same procedure as a regularly-scheduled election session.”

Amedda spread his arms wide, gesturing to the trio of repulsorpods floating before him, the sonorous echoes of his last sentence slowly dying. “Your three candidates for Chancellor are here before you today. Prior to the vote, each candidate will have the floor for a short time so they may address you. Speaking order is determined by poll standings. Senator Sapir of Kuat will speak first, then senators Palpatine and Garm bel Iblis will be offered an opportunity to respond to her and deliver their own thoughts. 

“Before we begin, the Chancellor and the Vice Chair will have the opportunity to endorse the candidates of their choice. Chancellor Organa, you have the floor.” 

Bail stood and cleared his throat, fighting the urge to peer over the edge of the podium. Being held thirty meters in the air was one of the things about addressing the Senate that Bail didn’t enjoy—a small part of him was grateful this was his last time having to do so. 

“Thank you, Mister Speaker,” Bail began, instinctively leaning forward as if he were speaking into a microphone.  _ Old habits,  _ he mentally scolded himself. The central podium was wired in such a way that he could have sat back down, slouched in his chair, and still been heard by the senators in the farthest row of repulsorpods—as unprofessional as that may have looked.  _ Then again, professionalism sort of went out the window when I started a war on my own. _ Nevertheless, he straightened his posture before continuing. 

“This may surprise some of you, but I’m not exactly going to follow protocol here.” An uncomfortable chuckle spread throughout the Senate chamber, and Bail breathed a miniscule sigh—any noise was preferable to the stone-faced silence. “I won’t be endorsing any of these candidates today. The way things are, I doubt any of them  _ want  _ my endorsement. Instead, I’m here to offer you a much-needed apology.

“It may ring hollow. You may not forgive me, and I understand that. But I acted out of line, and for that I am sorry. I’ve put us all in a terrible situation: a war with the Galactic Confederacy. I can’t say for certain whether or not we’d have ended up here anyway”—not that he meant that, but Mon, had they been speaking, would have advised the attempt at being conciliatory—“but my actions helped nothing. My time as Chancellor has rightly come to an end, and I look forward to serving alongside all of you as Alderaan’s senator in this next administration.”

Bail scanned the room. Some senators sat with their arms crossed, clearly unimpressed with his statement. Others nodded approvingly. He glanced at Mon Mothma’s repulsorpod—the senator seated within met his eyes and shrugged, as if to say “ _ Not bad _ .” Shooting her the briefest nod in return, Bail inhaled and spoke his last words as Chancellor. 

“I now yield the floor to your Senate Vice Chair, Fosc Fey’lya of Bothawui,” Bail said. With a gentle nod of his head, he sat down as Fosc rose to a standing position.  _ And that, as they say, is that. _

“Thank you, Mister Chancellor,” Fosc spoke in Bail’s direction, offering a slight bow. Bail’s eyebrows raised in surprise at being addressed by his proper title—Fosc hadn’t been so courteous when they were meeting in the Antechamber. Still, Bail supposed, it wouldn’t do to be openly disrespectful in a Senate session.  _ His friends back home might hear about it,  _ Bail thought.  _ Can’t have that.  _

“Fellow delegates of the Senate,” Fosc said, his smooth voice purring over the chamber loudspeakers, “our great Galactic Republic stands at the precipice of war. As we select the person who will lead us in this pivotal moment, we representatives are faced with a choice: to run from war”—at this, he gestured to the repulsorpod where Garm bel Iblis sat—“or to rush headlong into it,” he finished, gesturing to Sapir and Palpatine. His fur rippled slightly along the scruff of his neck. 

“I am not here to make an endorsement this morning,” the Vice Chair continued. “I am simply here to ask a question: what if there were another way? What if the solution to this Confederacy problem was not violence or bloodshed, but simply offering these people a seat at the table? Letting them be heard, and working through our differences like the civilized people I know we all are. Aggression has been shown—by both sides—but in neither case was it wholly unwarranted.”

_ What the hell is he playing at?  _ Bail thought to himself. The grandstanding in and of itself was merely obnoxious, but giving a sop to the Confederacy? Handwaving the burning of a planet as a misunderstanding?

“Let us make Had Abbadon the first and last battle of this conflict. Perhaps history can remember us not for the war we won, but for the war we avoided altogether. These are the ideals I cling to in this dark time.” 

As the Vice Chair spoke, Bail’s eyes darted across the room. The senators of the galaxy sat in total silence as Fosc gave his speech. Some shook their heads, others leaned forward with interest, but the typical whispers of a Senate session were nowhere to be found. There were no snide remarks being traded around each repulsorpod, not even errands being given to a staff aide. Nobody was saying a word. 

“If you wish to cling to these ideals too,” Fosc said, “you should have a voice. I would be honored to be that voice.” 

Bail inhaled through his nose sharply.  _ No,  _ he thought.  _ He is not about to do what I think he is. He can’t.  _

“That is why I am announcing my candidacy for Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic.”

At first, the room was silent. Several seconds seemed to pass without anyone reacting to the news; then, a smattering of hesitant applause began.

As far as Bail could tell, the first people to applaud were some senators seated in the Core Worlds section of the room, but the clapping soon spread throughout the entire Senate chamber. It was polite, devoid of the cheers and shouts one might find at a political rally. Still, it was there, and it echoed through the chamber. They’d had their chance to shut down Fosc’s bid for the seat, and they’d missed it. 

Dumbfounded, Bail shot another glance at Mon; she looked back at him, her own eyes wide. Across the chamber, they shared the same thought:  _ That devious bastard. _

“Order!” Mas Amedda shouted over the chorus of clapping hands as it grew in volume. “Senators, please! Hold your applause.” As the clapping began to subside, the speaker rose to his feet and waved his arms in an apparent attempt to instruct the room to settle down. His rumbling voice had quieted much louder disturbances; within a few moments, the chamber had once again fallen silent.

“This announcement is . . . unexpected,” the Chagrian continued. “But Vice Chair Fey’lya is technically operating within the rules and procedures of the Senate. As he is currently not on the ballot, we will be transmitting new ballots to the printers at your seats. Please utilize them when voting.”

Amedda cleared his throat—the Senate Chamber’s public address speakers briefly muted themselves to avoid broadcasting a great rumble throughout the room—then continued. “Mister Vice Chair, in the interest of fairness, your announcement speech will be considered your speaking opportunity as a candidate.”

“Of course,” Fey’lya offered with a nod. “Thank you, Mister Speaker.” 

“Senator Sapir?” Mas Amedda said, moving to look at the avian woman from Kuat. As the Speaker addressed her, Sapir’s repulsorpod floated upwards, away from the grouping of Chancellor candidates and alongside the central podium. “In light of these new circumstances, we can call a brief recess before your speech. Provided each candidate agrees to it, that is.” 

The senator’s head-crest feathers were now hidden beneath a ceremonial hood, but Bail could see the tips of the feathers poking just out from the hood—they shifted to an orange color as Sapir rose to her feet. “Thank you, Mister Speaker, but that won’t be necessary. I’m prepared to speak now.”

“Very well,” Mas Amedda replied. “Senator Sapir, you have the floor.” 

“Thank you.” Sapir bowed slightly in Amedda’s direction. As she turned back to face the crowd, she briefly paused to meet Bail’s gaze, her eyes weary.

Seizing the opportunity, Bail locked eyes with Sapir and silently mouthed “ _ Do something, _ ” cocking his head in the direction of Fosc Fey’lya. The Fosh’s brow furrowed as the tips of her head feathers turned red; before Bail could attempt to elaborate, she whirled around to face the Senate without responding to his request. 

“I have always valued our electoral system,” Sapir began. 

Bail could feel the excessive pauses between each word, as if the senator were making her speech up on the fly.  _ Stalling, I hope,  _ he thought to himself.  _ Buying time to come up with a plan.  _ He tried to catch Mon’s eye again, but her attention was fixed on the Fosh, as if she were hanging on every word.

“It affords each and every one of us the same opportunity to become Chancellor,” Sapir continued. “To lead this great Republic. Yet today, only three of us came before you to ask for your votes.” Pausing, she turned around to face the chamber’s central podium. “Chancellor Organa, how many people did you run against last election?” 

It took a moment for Bail to absorb the fact that he was once again being dragged into proceedings. Standing up, he cleared his throat, then leaned forward. “Ahh, eight, I believe.” 

“Eight others. Nine candidates in total. And today we began with three.” Sapir nodded ever so slightly in Bail’s direction before turning back to face the rest of the Senate. “You can’t help but wonder why that is. 

“I believe it’s because we know better. Now is not the time for a fringe candidate. On any other election day, I would applaud the efforts of a candidate running with little support. Running to make their voice heard. But clearly most of us realize that today is not the day for that. Most of us. But not all of us.”

Sapir turned to glance over her shoulder at Fosc Fey’lya, who sat with his arms crossed in his seat on the podium platform. “Vice Chair Fey’lya’s goal is a noble one, but he forgets a critical fact: we are already at war. Had Abbadon was the first of many battles. My time on the Defense Committee has shown me what a ruthless force this clone army can be. We will not talk our way out of this one. The ruined surface of Had Abbadon stands as testament to that fact.

“We must  _ defend  _ ourselves. In the interest of the galaxy, and in the interest of the freedom and stability of the Republic, I am going to say something I never thought I’d say. If you came here today planning to vote for me: don’t.” 

A gasp filled the room; a mix of confusion and surprise cascaded down the rows of repulsorpods. 

“Rank me second on your ballots, or rank me fourth. I don’t care. It is crucial that these two men”—a talon jabbed in the direction of Fosc, then of Garm bel Iblis—“not be left in charge as we are dragged into a war. We must elect a capable Chancellor. A strong Chancellor. A true leader for this difficult time. Members of the Galactic Senate, we must elect Palpatine of Naboo.” 

* * * 

The ringing in Bail’s ears faded as Mas Amedda’s rumbling voice sounded beside him. The Chancellor had been in a dazed state since the conclusion of Sapir’s speech, not bothering to listen to Palpatine or Garm bel Iblis share their thoughts with the Senate. He’d practically been on autopilot as he’d filled out his ballot—he’d ignored Sapir’s instructions, ranking her first and putting Palpatine last, despite a small part of his brain objecting to the idea of ranking Fosc above the senator from Naboo. 

Now, the Senate Speaker was directing everyone to wait while a droid tabulated the vote results. Bail mentally recited the instructions, the voice in his head droning with boredom. At this point in his career, he’d heard them dozens of times.  _ Your printed ballots will be saved in case a manual recount is necessary, blah blah blah.  _

Sinking lower in his seat, Bail clenched a fist. When he’d tried to tell Sapir to do something, he had  _ not  _ meant to throw things to Palpatine. But what could he do? Stand up and tell the whole Senate that the man had come to his office and . . . 

_ And what?  _ Bail thought.  _ Acted intimidating? That’s hardly a real charge to bring against someone. _

“Members of the Senate,” Mas Amedda said, causing Bail to snap to attention in his seat, “there is no winner after the first round of tabulation. Per the ballot rankings, votes for Senator Garm bel Iblis will be redistributed and the vote count will occur again.” 

A series of groans and sighs of disappointment sounded throughout the Senate chamber, not coming from one particular section but rather peppered across the rows of repulsorpods. Bail was unable to contain his own whisper of “Dammit!”—he’d hoped Palpatine or Fey’lya might be disqualified first.

A disgruntled-looking bel Iblis flopped into his chair as his repulsorpod floated back to its spot along the chamber wall—amidst the sounds of dissatisfaction echoing about, Mas Amedda called for order. 

“Senators, please,” the Speaker said. “This is a hall of government, not a stadium. Let us behave ourselves.” Holding out his hands to quiet the crowd of representatives, he turned to the droid as it processed the results of the second tabulation round. 

“Ah, very good. We now have a victor,” the Chagrian boomed.

The Senate chamber fell silent, save for the sounds of senators and aides alike leaning forward in their chairs to hear the news.

Bail could feel his heart rate spike, his palms grow sweaty and his mouth dry out. Across the way, Mon stared back at him, expression somber but not numb with dread. She hadn’t been there in his office that day. Didn’t know what he knew.

_ Not him. Please, not him. _

“In the interest of promoting effective galactic leadership during this time of war,” Mas Amedda said, “we will not be waiting until tomorrow’s Senate session to administer the oath of office. The new Chancellor will be sworn in immediately.” The Speaker turned to face Bail. “Chancellor Organa, would you do the honors of swearing in your successor?” 

“I—” Bail began before his voice became stuck in his dried-out throat. He rose to his feet, swallowed, and continued. “I’d be honored to, Mister Speaker.”  _ As long as it’s not— _

“Senator Palpatine,” Mas Amedda spoke outward toward the pair of floating repulsorpods, “please come forward.” 

Palpatine’s pod drifted upwards as Sapir’s moved backwards toward the wall. Fosc Fey’lya hissed to himself and sat down in a huff—Bail allowed himself a brief rush of satisfaction at watching the man lose before he returned to the reality: Fosc’s defeat didn’t erase the fact that Palpatine had won. 

The Senator from Naboo was elevated to Bail’s eye level by his repulsorpod. The man smiled at Bail—a smile Bail knew looked innocent to any outside observer, but felt all too sinister to him. The two men exchanged polite nods; then Bail spoke. 

“Senator Palpatine,” he said, suppressing all emotion and delivering the man’s name as flatly as a fresh-off-the-line droid, “please read the oath of office as it appears before you.”

A projection of text fizzled into existence in the air between Bail and Palpatine, the latter’s voice amplified throughout the Senate chamber as he read it. 

“I, Palpatine of Naboo, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the Galactic Republic. 

“So help me god.” 


	2. Head of State, Head of Table

_ Gods, I hate formal wear,  _ Padmé thought to herself, shifting from side to side in an attempt to render the burgundy dress she wore a shade more comfortable. The damn thing was everything she’d feared when she’d reluctantly selected it from the Coruscant shop window—rustling every time she moved, constricting her ability to take a full breath, and picking up dust as if it were summoning it closer. She’d worn dresses on Oseon, but that planet’s definition of  _ elegant _ was decidedly different from the Core’s. Wearing this thing felt like being trapped in a labyrinth of fabric.

“ _ You look great, _ ” Anakin had told her as they were getting ready. “ _ Seriously. _ ”

“ _ If I wanted your opinion on how I look, Skywalker, I’d have asked, _ ” she’d growled in reply, hoisting the thing a bit higher on her waist. “ _ It’s not how I  _ look _ , it’s how I move. Or how I  _ don’t _ move, more like. _ ” With an exasperated exhalation, she’d turned to look at her husband, who was leaning against the far wall and fiddling with the cuffs of his dress uniform. “ _ Why is it that  _ you _ get to wear something functional? _ ”

“ _ Hey, it’s not like I exactly like this thing either, _ ” he’d said, holding up his hands defensively. “ _ I was hoping when Obi-Wan requisitioned it it’d get lost in the mail. _ ”

Sighing, she’d reached for a comb to run through her hair for the umpteenth time. “ _ The new chancellor had better look fancy when we show up for dinner. _ ”

And, she supposed, to his credit, Chancellor Palpatine had indeed spruced himself up appropriately. Where his predecessor had favored a shirt and pants, with a cape to complete the ensemble, Palpatine wore a flowing robe whose shade was very similar to her dress. On another man it could have looked foppish, but somehow the former senator from Naboo managed to get away with it. In a bizarre way she couldn’t explain, it made Padmé not trust him.

He matched the establishment, at any rate. The food wasn’t bad at all—whatever spice-drenched meat Padmé was sticking in her mouth was almost alarmingly delicious, especially compared to the rations she’d been eating til so recently—but the decor was so obnoxiously ostentatious. The carpet appeared to be actual velvet, and exotic metals covered the walls. Real plants sprang up from tables. Hell, there had even been a  _ fountain _ in the entryway. And while the server droids probably weren’t plated in actual gold, the fact that they looked like they were was bad enough. If this was where Palpatine dined on a regular basis, he had to spend a significant portion of his salary on reservations alone.

As if he could sense the thought radiating off her, the Chancellor glanced over in her direction and smiled. “I must say, Ms. Amidala, you look absolutely  _ lovely _ this evening.”

She offered a tight return smile. “Thanks.”

Compliment paid, Palpatine turned his attention back to the other side of the table, where Anakin was doing his best not to let the tableware  _ clink _ too loudly against his metal fingers. “And how have you been getting on with General Kenobi, Anakin?” No  _ Mr. Skywalker _ there—Anakin had promptly insisted on being called by his first name. Padmé was not ready to be quite so accommodating.

“Oh, fantastic,” Anakin replied, in between mouthfuls of some kind of bird. “Though he hasn’t exactly been happy with some of my more extreme shuttle maneuvers.”

Chuckling, Palpatine swirled the wine glass he held between his fingers, letting the liquid circle around. “I must say, I didn’t expect the greatest general of the Republic to be squeamish.”

The pilot grinned. “You should see  _ him _ fly sometime. Though it might be a little dangerous for you to be in the area.”

Absurdly, Padmé felt a twinge of annoyance at her husband for this . . . disloyalty? Not as though she hadn’t swiped at Obi-Wan plenty of times before, but something about the Chancellor laughing at him felt distinctly irritating. She’d  _ earned _ the right to mock him, damn it. 

“He was doing the best he could,” she said, aware too late that she had cut off Palpatine’s next statement—he kept his mouth open for a second, then clipped it shut. “He’d been beat to hell,” Padmé continued. “I’m amazed he was able to stay conscious, much less fly us out of a cave.”

If he was annoyed at the interruption, the Chancellor did not show it; he simply smiled pleasantly. “Of course, I meant no disrespect.” Finally, he stopped swishing his wine around and took a sip. “General Kenobi is a hero, as are the both of you. We shall need him in the coming days.”

A silence fell over the next several moments. Padmé took a too-large bite of her dinner and burned her tongue; looking over at Anakin, she noticed a faintly scandalized expression on his face.  _ So he’s a head of state,  _ she did her best to think at him,  _ big deal. _

“So,” Palpatine said, after another slow sip of wine. “What  _ are _ your thoughts on the war to come?”

Anakin shrugged, inartfully setting his fork down. “I just fly ships.”

“And I simply try to corral senators into voting a certain way. Who can say which of us is more useful?” The Chancellor put his glass down, leaned slightly forward. “Tell me.”

Going slightly red, Anakin picked up his fork again and started fiddling with it. “As far as my experience with the Republic military goes, they’re the best of the best. No vat-grown soldiers could compete with Typhoon Division, anyway, that’s for sure.”

“And quantity over quality isn’t a concern? You don’t think they could simply churn out enough troops to make their relative incompetence irrelevant?”

Another shrug. “We’ll see, I suppose.”

“Indeed we shall.” Thoughtfully, a few moments later: “It’s the poorest areas I’m most concerned about, myself. Of course the Confederacy could never penetrate as far as the Core, but we’re spread too thin to cover the border worlds. Had Abbadon is a case in point.”

“Funny,” Padmé said before she could stop herself, “I didn’t think it was a matter of being stretched too thin so much as the Republic not caring enough to send troops. Except the man you replaced, of course.”

This time, she thought she saw the mask slip a little—not in the Chancellor’s face, but in the way he gripped the stem of his wine glass just a bit harder. “Let me assure you, Ms. Amidala, many cared quite deeply, myself included. But one does not simply invade other planets’ airspaces in an attempt to solve their problems. I should think you’d agree with me—you’re from a non-member world, are you not?”

Great, who’d told him that? Kenobi, probably. “Oseon,” she replied, forcing a smile to rise back up on her face. “Not that the Republic hasn’t tried to bring us in. I remember the ships, every few years.”

“Consider it a compliment,” Palpatine said, his own smile perhaps a touch smugger than it had been a moment before. “But I assume that, were we to simply send Typhoon Division into your orbit uninvited, you would not approve.”

She felt her smile grow just a bit wider. “Ask me if we ever catch on fire.”

A passing waiter droid refilled the Chancellor’s glass; when this was finished, he raised it in a toast, inclining his head. Whether this awarding of a point was meant sincerely or patronizingly, Padmé couldn’t tell. “To that day never coming, then.”

After her own glass was refilled, Padmé clinked it against his perhaps a bit more forcefully than was warranted. “I’ll drink to that.”

* * *

“I’m curious,” Anakin said, at the same time tugging at his collar in what he hoped was a discreet manner. “What would you have done differently? On Had Abbadon, I mean.”

As an attempt at a segue, it was a bit desperate—the look Padmé kept giving their host was identical to the one she’d thrown at Obi-Wan throughout the first 24 hours or so of their acquaintance, and Anakin worried that if they kept talking it would end with her openly insulting a head of state—but the pilot was also genuinely curious. One thing Palpatine definitely did not appear to be was flippant. Something behind his eyes had seemed to be at work the whole evening, thinking over every single response or question before it was voiced. Anakin had no doubt that, whatever the Chancellor’s opinion on the cave planet’s liberation was, it was not one he would have come to easily.

“Not an easy question,” Palpatine replied, almost as though he’d overheard this last thought He looked Anakin’s way—was that gratefulness in his eyes, thanks for being rescued from Padmé’s verbal fencing? “But I did put you on the spot, I suppose I owe you an answer in return.” Pausing to take a bite of his dinner, the Chancellor considered. “Well, I suppose my evasive answer is that had I been in charge of things, Had Abbadon would have been under Republic jurisdiction to begin with.” 

Furrowing his eyebrows, Anakin sipped at his wine. “What do you mean by that?”

“I’ll be frank with you, Anakin. The Republic is . . . not what it was. We are eaten alive by special interest groups and petty squabbles. There’s not been a new member world added in two decades, all because no one has paid any sort of attention to the situation outside our own borders. The Senate has been consumed with bickering over free trade and planets’ rights and things of that nature. Oh, we’ll send ships to non-member worlds every now and then as a matter of habit—as you saw on Oseon, I’ve no doubt,” he said, inclining his head toward Padmé. “But the Republic has experienced a crisis of indecision for years now.”

He looked off into the distance, as if thinking the matter over further before replying. “Chancellor Organa’s idea of unilateral action wasn’t necessarily wrongheaded. He simply deployed it too late. When you’ve come to the choice between letting a planet burn and declaring unlawful war, you’ve mucked things up.”

Anakin’s first instinct was to defend Bail. The man was one of Obi-Wan’s best friends, after all, and had moved heaven and earth to rescue him. But it wasn’t as though the Chancellor was insulting him, exactly. In fact, hadn’t he just said his predecessor had had the right idea? “So,” he asked, “what are you going to do now? I mean, aren’t all those problems still here? The arguing and whatnot?”

Palpatine nodded gravely. “Too true, I’m afraid. And the biggest problem of all lies with the military.”

The pilot frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Anakin, look at how you and Ms. Amidala landed here. Not that we’re not thrilled to have you here, of course—but what was the reason Typhoon Division was in the Had system in the first place? Why did they go there against any semblance of constitutional law?”

“The Chancellor told them to.”

Shaking his head, the current Chancellor leaned slightly closer, as if imparting a secret. “No. I can guarantee that if I, or Vice Chair Sapir, or Senator C’born of Malastare, had been in charge and had ordered them to do something outside protocol, they would not have done it. It’s  _ personalities  _ that matter. Tribalism. Not government.” A deep sigh escaped his lips, and Anakin could suddenly see the overwhelming weariness behind the old man’s eyes—and Palpatine  _ was _ old, not ancient but decidedly past his prime. Bail, when he’d met with Anakin and Padmé before the victory parade on Alderaan, had been haggard but still clearly fit, young. For a moment, Anakin felt the oddest sense of  _ worry _ roll through him, almost as if the Force were telling him that the toll this war would take on the new Chancellor might be too much.

As Palpatine continued, the pilot yanked himself back to the conversation. “Typhoon Division,” the old man said, “thinks of themselves first and foremost as Alderaan’s finest. Because Senator Organa is also of the royal family of Alderaan, they did as he commanded.” Blinking his troubled eyes a couple of times, he continued: “It’s the same the galaxy over; Alderaan does not stand alone. The Republic was conceived as a  _ unified _ body, systems coming together for the greater good. In practice, lesser loyalties still hold sway.”

“So, what?” Anakin almost jumped when Padmé spoke; in the last several moments it had seemed almost as though it were only him and Palpatine at the table. Glancing over, he saw that the potential danger in her expression hadn’t waned. “People are just supposed to forget who they are when they join the Republic? I can just kiss Oseon goodbye and never go back?”

Palpatine reached over, then, and laid his hand on top of hers. The concern in his expression was unmistakable. “My dear Ms. Amidala, of course not. Do you think I forget Naboo? But were my planet to secede from the Republic, I would know where my duty lay. I do not think I could say the same for all members of the Senate.”

Toying with his fork, the Chancellor settled back in his chair and thought. “Let me share with you a riddle that was posed to me when I was a boy on Naboo. I’m sure you’ll have heard some variant of it, of course, it’s not unique to us. Which is the greater sin: to betray a friend or to betray the laws to which you hold yourself?”

Padmé, who’d drawn her hand away from her host’s as quickly as she could without seeming rude, answered without hesitation. “The friend.”

When the Chancellor’s gaze drifted back across the table, Anakin nodded and echoed, “Yeah, the friend.” As soon as he’d said so, part of him whispered that he should have put more thought into the answer. Absurdly, that part felt a bit  _ guilty _ at the answer, a reflexive response utterly unlike Palpatine’s considered sentences. It was as though he’d said something that would be answered with a parental frown.

None appeared, however. Nodding, Palpatine replied, “You know, when I first heard the riddle, I said the same thing. Most of my class did, in fact. And then our teacher said: it is inarguably the greater sin to betray the laws. For in doing so, you betray not only yourself but the society that raised you and your friend—and so betray the friend as well, in a deeper sense.”

Snorting, Padmé replied through a mouthful of dinner, “Sounds like something Kenobi would say.”

“He does have a reputation for wisdom.” Gently laying his silverware across his plate, Palpatine chuckled briefly. “At any rate, Anakin, to address your original question: I, too, have to act within the law, so my options are necessarily limited. But if I have one goal for now—besides, of course, winning the war—it’s to make the Senate realize that the Republic is first and foremost that, a Republic. Not a temporary club of neighbors. And while I don’t intend to . . .” He cast about for the right word. “ _ Overstep _ my authority, I will do anything within it to see that goal realized.”

As the droid waiter circled back around to take the Chancellor’s plate, Anakin hazarded, “Well, you’ve got an ear in Alderaan’s neck of the woods now, so that’s something. I’ll take care of Obi-Wan, he’ll take care of the military. Between the two of us we can keep ‘em loyal.”

Palpatine chuckled. Padmé did not.

* * *

Afterward, in the aircar back, Padmé started out the window, watching the dancing lanterns of lit skyscrapers scroll by. It was almost like being underwater, watching schools of bioluminescent creatures drift by in the currents. In general, she was finding Coruscant difficult to get used to—her Oseon-instilled preference for open spaces had only redoubled since being trapped in a cave system for a month—but at night, it was almost relaxing.

_ Almost  _ being the operative word. Especially after tonight’s meal.

“So what did he say to you just as we were leaving?” she asked, making the minimum effort to keep her voice casual. “I missed it.”

“Oh,” Anakin said, his own voice as faux-airy as hers, “just that he’d like to keep in touch whenever we’re on the planet.”

Rolling her eyes, Padmé turned her head to look at her husband. “Cute.”

“What?” he asked, putting on an expression of wounded innocence.

“‘Oh, nothing, really, Padmé, the head of state just wants me to pop over every time I have a chance.’ You’re terrible at hiding things.”

She watched his own eyes roll in turn. “Hey, I knew you were gonna react like this, I had to try. What’s the big deal? It’s kind of an honor. And if we’re gonna learn to be Republic citizens, wouldn’t the leader of the whole thing be a great teacher?”

“That’s just it.  _ It is inarguably the greater sin to betray the laws,  _ that doesn’t sound a little dictatory to you?”

“I don’t think dictatory is a word—”

“And the little jabs at Organa and Kenobi—what the hell was  _ that _ about? You didn’t get mad at that?”

“You insult Obi-Wan all the time.”

“That’s  _ different _ ,” she insisted, knowing even as she said it that she sounded like a child. “Anyway, what did  _ you _ think of him?”

“I mean, what do you want me to say? I hate his guts?”

“Just telling me your actual opinion would be nice.”

Anakin threw up his hands in the air, the right one making a muted  _ clank _ as it hit the aircar’s ceiling. “He seemed . . . sincere. Tired, but like he cares. And you can’t tell me that he doesn’t want the best for other people. He  _ wants _ to treat places like Oseon better! How is that bad?”

“Believe me, Skywalker, being treated better by the Republic was never high on our list of priorities.”

If the pilot had any reply to this, he kept it to himself. After several moments’ silence, Padmé went back to staring out the aircar window. Traffic whizzed by like giant fireflies.

“He was just doing his job, y’know,” she finally heard Anakin say. “It’s not like he arranged for Bail to get railroaded out of office. Organa screwed up by sending Obi-Wan to Had Abbadon, he was the first to say so when we met him on Alderaan.”

“I don’t have any conspiracy theories buzzing in my head, trust me.” And she didn’t. But still . . .

“It’s just  _ weird _ ,” she said. “Why should the leader of trillions of people decide to take an interest in  _ us _ ? We’re just a couple of nobodies who got dragged into a war he didn’t want.”

“Hey, c’mon, we’re heroes. We’re gonna have to get used to an adoring public.” When Padmé looked back over at Anakin, he waggled his eyebrows. “Gotta give ‘em what they want, right?”

Despite herself, a snort of laughter escaped. “Dork.”

“Crank.”

He slipped his arm around her, then; the cool metal of the mechanical hand stung against her bare collarbone for a second, but she leaned in anyway, resting her head on his shoulder. “I’ll be honest,” she murmured. “I’d like him a lot more if I hadn’t had to wear this damn dress.”

Padmé felt her husband’s mouth move upward in a smirk. “Next time we’ll do business casual. You can wear a tank top or something.”

The way he said  _ next time _ , as if it were a given thing, made her prickle just a little.

“Just . . . don’t get too friendly with the guy,” she said, digging her head a bit harder into the hollow of his neck. “The last Chancellor knowing about the Jedi caused enough problems.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure he doesn’t find me that interesting.” 


	3. Recovery

Morning sunlight streamed through the open window; a soft breeze caused the thin white curtains to drift away from the painted wooden windowsill. As the wind wisped across Qui-Gon Jinn’s face, her eyelids fluttered open.

The Jedi snapped them back shut, wincing against the bright line of light slashed across her dark skin. When a few moments had passed, she allowed her eyes to slowly reopen, then sat up to survey her surroundings.

A sparse bedroom surrounded her. The floor was the color of birch, the walls a calm sea-blue. Sitting empty in the far corner was a modestly padded chair; an end table adorned with a lamp was perched beside the single bed. Against the table leaned a modest cane which appeared to be carved from a single piece of wood—knots stuck out in several places, and the grain of the wood ran down its length.

Qui-Gon swung her legs over the edge of the bed and moved to rise. The moment her feet hit the floor, a strange numbness shot up through her spine, and she collapsed backwards onto the bed.

_Huh. That seems wrong._

Vague impressions slowly creeped back into her mind—flashing sheets of color. A horned, demonic face rising in the darkness. A lance of scarlet hurtling toward her.

_Ah._

For several seconds, the Jedi simply laid on her back and stared at the ceiling, watching the light from the window play across the speckled surface. Then, she ran a hand down the rough tunic she was wearing, pausing as her fingers brushed over the spot where the Zabrak’s lightsaber had chewed through her gut. She could feel a bandage beneath the clothing, taped to her stomach to cover the injury.

 _So I definitely didn’t dream that_. _Terrific._

Sitting back up, Qui-Gon reached her right hand toward the wooden cane. It zipped through the air, smacking into her palm. She gripped it tightly, leaning her weight into the wood as she attempted to stand once again. It wobbled, but held firm, more than matching her weight. _There,_ she thought as she successfully rose to her feet. _That’s better_.

Leaning into the cane with each step, Qui-Gon moved toward the bedroom door. Though its appearance suggested an old-fashioned construction made of natural materials, the door nevertheless slid aside automatically as Qui-Gon approached it. She turned immediately to her right upon exiting the bedroom—this was the way outside, if that breeze from the bedroom window was to be believed.

Sure enough, at the end of a short hallway there was another door. It slid aside of its own accord, bathing Qui-Gon in a soothingly warm sunlight and the unmistakable scent of the ocean.

Cautiously, she limped out onto a small porch. It, too, was made of wood—or a very convincing synthetic—and painted white. A pair of short steps led off the porch and onto a pristine beach. _Not Coruscant, then. But if I’m not dead, and I’m not home, then where . . . ?_ Pausing momentarily to let the breeze waft over her, Qui-Gon then hobbled down onto the sandy surface.

She glanced left, then right, to find a beach stretching as far as she could see in both directions. Several small shacks sat in even intervals along it; behind this row of shacks was a massive building. It stood in contrast to the rustic nature of each hut—a sleek white surface, with silvery windows reflecting the morning sun back at the water.

Turning all the way around, Qui-Gon could see that her own shack—the one she had just exited, anyway—backed up to the white building. In fact, it appeared that the dwelling was _connected_ to the looming construct. As if each beach shack served as an entrance to the mystery structure.

Qui-Gon turned again to face the water. _Not the ocean,_ she thought, correcting her earlier assumption. Rather, it appeared she was facing into the center of an unusually large bay. Across the water, a city skyline was plainly visible. Most of its towering skyscrapers matched the slick white aesthetic of the mystery building that ran along the beach she stood on. They curved gently upward, seeming to sparkle in the morning light.

_Well, what the hell am I doing on—_

“Oh, you’re awake!”

The voice—familiar though it was—startled her—in her scrutiny of her surroundings, she’d failed to sense anyone coming. Belatedly, the Jedi spun around—first, just her head glanced backward, her body taking time catching up as she used the cane to assist herself in turning.

Confirming her new companion’s identity only deepened her confusion. “Qlik?”

A blue-skinned Duros in a maintenance jumpsuit stood in the doorway, reddish eyes wide with some emotion Qui-Gon couldn’t really read. Before he could reply in the affirmative, she waved a hand, dismissing her own question, and continued: “Where am I?”

The Duros coughed a bit, looking almost like a toddler who’d been caught at something naughty—it was a frequent expression, one she’d mostly given up on trying to cajole him out of. “Ah,” he said, his voice low as though they were in a hospital hallway, “you’re on Alderaan.”

“I gathered that,” Qui-Gon said, thumbing back at the skyline behind her. “ _Where_?”

“Medical facility on the Sanctuary Coast. They, ah, they have a wing that specializes in nerve reconstruction.”

Her eyes grew wide, flitting down toward the cane in her hand. Slowly, she raised her head back up to look at Qlik. “How long have I been here?”

The Duros motioned toward the interior of the beach shack. “Come inside? We can sit down, talk about this.”

“Qlik,” Qui-Gon replied, stretching out the name as she said it. “How long?”

“You really should sit down . . .”

In frustration, Qui-Gon clenched her fist and curled the toes of her bare feet. As she did so, realization dawned in her eyes. “Qlik . . . I can’t feel the sand between my toes.”

Sadness flashed behind the Duros’ bulbous eyes. “Yes, it’s . . . there was quite a bit of damage.”

“I’m not coming inside until you tell me how long I’ve been here.” She hated the waver that entered her voice as she spoke, but couldn’t suppress it before it was out in the open.

Qlik inclined his head slowly, though his eyes stayed on hers. “Six months.”

Qui-Gon felt her knees grow weaker than they already were. “I . . . six _months_?”

The Duros moved forward, out of the doorway and toward the front of the porch. He paused at the top of the steps and stretched an open hand out toward Qui-Gon. “Please. Come inside. Lots to talk about.”

* * * 

The kitchen of Qui-Gon’s shack was as modest as the rest of the structure. An old-fashioned cooking surface was set into decidedly out-of style-countertops. Unremarkable dining furniture sat in the center of the room, and as Qlik lowered himself into one of the kitchen chairs, he passed Qui-Gon a plain-looking mug of tea.

“Six months, huh?” she asked, attempting to steady her shaking hand as she took a sip of the steaming beverage. “How have I been here that long?”

Qlik leaned forward in his chair and placed his elbows on the kitchen table, the solid surface seeming to steady his nervous demeanor. “Well, you were in an induced coma for a while. There was the initial surgery. Some time in a bacta tank, a few more rounds of surgery. You were brought out of the coma pretty slowly just to be safe, then you had to learn to walk again—”

“Wait,” Qui-Gon interrupted. “I don’t remember doing that.”

“Ah, yes, well, your memory of things might be a little fuzzy for a while,” Qlik replied, scratching the back of his neck. “The doctors say, anyway. But don’t worry,” he added after an awkward pause, “it should all come back eventually.”

“‘Eventually,’” Qui-Gon echoed. She leaned back in her chair, being careful not to let her cane—which was leaning precariously against the kitchen table—fall to the floor. “That’s. . . comforting.”

Qui-Gon’s Duros companion winced. “I’m sorry, I know it must be—”

“Not your fault, Qlik,” she said, her voice a bit sterner than she’d intended. “Not as though much of it is probably worth remembering. And if you apologize all day I’m not going to get any answers to my questions.”

Nodding gratefully, the Duros swallowed and said, “Okay, how about this: tell me the last thing you _do_ remember?”

“I got stabbed in the gut with a lightsaber,” Qui-Gon said flatly. “Must’ve passed out right there in the wrecked ship, because the next thing I know I’m waking up here. Well . . . no. Wait, maybe. There is one thing, but it seemed more like a dream than anything else. I talked with Obi-Wan.”

Qlik nodded, something in his amphibian face seeming to perk up. “That was real! Obi-Wan—erm, Master Kenobi sends his regards, by the way. Doctors wanted a familiar face here when you woke up; it was supposed to be him. You got me instead.”

Halfway through a sip of tea, Qui-Gon sputtered a slight laugh. “Well, Qlik, you’re a hell of a consolation prize. I suppose Obi-Wan—” she froze, then set the mug of tea down on the table while staring at the Duros across from her. “Hang on. Did you say _Master_ Kenobi?”

“Ah, right. You wouldn’t have heard.” Qlik’s head bobbed up and down in a nod. “Obi-Wan has taken a student. The pilot from Had Abbadon, actually. Skywalker?”

A satisfied smile spread its way across Qui-Gon’s mouth. _At least I didn’t get carved up for nothing._ “Good.”

“They’re gone quite a bit. Always a treat when they come back to the Temple,” he continued, memories of the pilot overriding his usual, nerve-induced brevity. “Skywalker usually stops by the hangar, helps work on the ships. The team _loves_ him. Wish he’d been a technician instead of a knight, but what can you do?” With a shrug, the Duros collapsed backwards in his chair, then sat up straight just a moment later. “That reminds me! Something you should see.”

Qlik rose to his feet and hastily made his way toward the rear of the kitchen, with Qui-Gon following suit—though she was unable to match the Duros’ speed, leaning heavily into her cane as she limped along behind him. The blue-skinned alien rubbed his hands together as he walked, his eyes glinting underneath the soft lights overhead; Qui-Gon, careful not to let him see, smiled. It was always adorable when Qlik had some new gadget or piece of technology to show off; she didn’t know if he realized how much his usual hesitance dissipated with the excitement.

The duo moved out of the kitchen and into a narrow hallway, which terminated in a slate-grey surface. A keypad was set into the wall on the right side.

“They don’t normally let patients back here,” Qlik said. “But I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“What is it?” Qui-Gon asked, putting most of her weight onto the cane as she came to a stop.

“Supposed to be a storage room,” replied the Duros. “Hospital was kind enough to let me use it as a garage.”

“A what now?”

With a _swoosh_ , the slate-grey surface slid aside, revealing a brightly lit chamber with pristine white walls and floors of polished duracrete. The cool lighting brilliantly illuminated the centerpiece of the room: a sleek starship. The two-seater racing vessel was adorned in a glossy black paint, with curves and slopes that seemed all too familiar.

“Oh my god. Is that what I think it is?” Qui-Gon said, her voice rising in excitement as she spoke. She moved as quickly as she could over to the racing ship and placed a hand against its hull.

Qlik nodded enthusiastically, head twitching up and down in rapid succession. “One XT-1580 ultralight performance vehicle, courtesy of—”

“Bail,” Qui-Gon whispered, noticing the handwritten flimsiplast note tucked against the ship’s cockpit glass. She reached forward, plucked it free, and gripped it tightly.

“Senator Organa brought the ship over himself. Said the owner wanted you to have it. A thank-you gift for helping Typhoon Division. For saving Had Abbadon.”

“‘Senator,’ huh? Figures as soon as I get myself an in with a Chancellor, the guy goes and gets himself demoted,” Qui-Gon mumbled, shooting a smirk back at Qlik. “We can talk politics later, though. Skywalker came here to fix this up?”

Qlik shook his head. “No. I did. It was in rough shape. Patched up the hull, replaced some inner workings, swapped that paint job for something a bit more your style.”

“It’s been equipped properly for a Jedi Knight, I hope,” she said, grinning expectantly. “All those fancy toys you love to hand out—”

“Well, um,” Qlik began, wringing his hands against each other as he spoke. The excitement that had been building behind his eyes started to drain, as though he were a balloon she’d punctured. “Actually, we do need to talk about that. The Temple medics—”

“The _what?_ ” Qui-Gon interrupted, a wave of sudden horror passing through her. “Qlik, you brought Jedi Temple medics here to see me?”

“Of course not!” the Duros hastily clarified, raising his hands as if to ward off an attack. “But they didn’t have to see you to know what’s going on. Master Kenobi’s report—”

“Son of a _bitch,”_ hissed Qui-Gon.

Qlik stared for a moment, then shook his head. When he spoke again, he did not continue the thought Qui-Gon had interrupted. “This, ah, couldn’t have been kept a secret for long.” At “this,” he gestured up and down the whole of her form, as if to indicate the state she was in.

“I had to try. They’ve grounded people for less.”

“The medics don’t ‘ground’ us, Qui-Gon. They . . . offer guidance. Make suggestions.” 

She gripped the head of her cane tighter, feeling it start to rock back and forth from the pressure bearing down on it. “And what do they ‘suggest’?”

As he reached up to scratch the back of his neck, a grimace crossed Qlik’s face. “You know, it was supposed to be Master Kenobi delivering this news. I’m not exactly good at—”

“Qlik. Tell me.”

The Duros released a heavy sigh, then leaned against a tool cabinet that sat next to the parked raceship, staring at one of its nacelles. “The medics recommend that you step down from your assignment as a Jedi Knight. Take a . . . less intensive role. A scholar, or perhaps an archivist.”

Qui-Gon simply scoffed.

An uncomfortably long silence hung in the makeshift garage before Qlik finally spoke. “It’s not so bad,” he offered. “Being at the Temple full-time, I mean. And you have experience in the suggested area—”

“There’s a war on, Qlik.” _Or at least I assume there is,_ she thought, but correcting herself wouldn’t fit the impression she was trying to convey. “The galaxy needs the Jedi Knights.”

“The medics don’t believe you’re in any state to fight—”

A _clatter_ resounding off the far wall caused Qlik to jump back into an upright position. Qui-Gon now stood tall, free of the assistance provided by her cane—she had thrown it into the corner of the storage room; its impact against a pile of boxes had been the source of the startling noise.

“Obi-Wan fought that Sith with multiple broken ribs,” Qui-Gon said indignantly. “He called on the Force to give him strength when he needed it.” She reached deep within herself, exhaled, and then stretched her arms wide to display her freestanding stability. “Look at me. I can do the same.”

It didn’t hurt. Not really. _Sure, it’s a bit taxing, but I’ll get used to it._

Qlik took a step toward Qui-Gon, but she stretched out a hand toward him as if to say _stop_ . The Duros froze in place as he spoke. “He told me what happened. _Also_ told me that when he got back to his cabin after you all left Had Abbadon, he slept for nearly twenty hours. Doing that”—he pointed toward Qui-Gon as she stood without her cane—“is too tiring.”

 _He must really be concerned about me,_ she thought, _making a speech like that._ “He slept that long because of all he’d been through.” Her voice, she noticed with chagrin, was beginning to waver, as were her knees. _Easy, now . . ._ “He’d spent the past few days fighting for his life in a cave network. You’d be tired too.”

“I spoke with other Knights who’ve used the technique in battle. They all said the same thing: it’s _exhausting_.” Qlik gingerly took another step toward her. “No way to live.”

Her knees weak to the point of failure, Qui-Gon finally collapsed forward toward the polished duracrete floor of the makeshift garage, only to be caught by the Duros on the way down. She glanced up at him, and he down at her. Neither Jedi said a word—Qui-Gon merely nodded wearily, and her Duros companion allowed her to swing an arm around his shoulder. They stood together, one supporting the other.

“So the medics want to ground me,” Qui-Gon said between deep breaths of exhaustion as she hung her weight on Qlik. “What do _you_ think?” Turning her eyes to meet his, she injected as stern a note as she could while also hanging onto him for support. “I swear, Qlik, if I’m stuck at the Temple archiving for the rest of my days, you won’t get a moment’s peace.”

After a few moments of consideration, an extremely unfamiliar expression crossed the Duros’ face for a brief moment. It looked almost like . . . mischief?

“Well,” he began slowly, “if you disagree with their assessment, I’ve. . . got some ideas.”

Slowly, Qui-Gon felt some of the old smirk settle over her face. “I knew I was going to like you as our quartermaster.” Stretching out her hand, she felt a warm _smack_ as the wood hit her palm. “Well, I suppose I’m at your disposal. Show me.”

* * *

Air _wooshed_ past Qui-Gon’s face as Qlik whipped away the tarp covering one of the workbenches in his makeshift garage. An array of scrap parts and machine components covered the surface of the workbench, most of which she didn’t recognize. In the corner of the work surface, she could just make out a small scrap of flimsiplast—the handwritten note she’d left for Qlik before leaving Coruscant to rescue Obi-Wan. _He kept it,_ she thought to herself. _Getting sentimental in his old age._

“This,” the Duros began, drawing Qui-Gon’s attention up to him as he gestured in a sweeping motion across the workbench’s surface, “is my latest project. A custom job, just for you.” He leaned against the workbench, faced Qui-Gon’s seated form, and pointed toward the walking stick she held loosely in her hand. “A fine piece of craftsmanship, isn’t it?”

Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow. His presentations always brought with them a certain level of . . . theatricality. How successful it was depended largely on the audience’s mood _._ “It’s okay, I guess,” she offered, lifting the wooden cane up to inspect it.

“Exactly,” Qlik said with a smile. “It’s okay. Nicely carved, yes. Perfectly functional, yes. But exciting? Fit for a Jedi like you, who flies one of those”—he gestured towards the raceship in the center of the garage—”and dresses like that?”

At this the Duros pointed to a mannequin, on which sat Qui-Gon’s favorite outfit: a lengthy gray coat with a tall collar sat wrapped around a leather vest and bandolier. The mannequin’s head was partially concealed by a hood, and gray pants and boots adorned the lower half of it. The circular burn mark through the center of the clothing was evidence enough that Qlik had not gotten around to patching up Qui-Gon’s clothes, though his long, spindly digits weren’t exactly suited to sewing.

When Qui-Gon did not answer the quartermaster’s question, he continued anyway. “Of course not! We can do better than that. Now, it’s not finished yet, so don’t be too harsh.” He reached down into the workbench and extracted a length of polished metal. At one end, an elegantly curved piece of glossy black synthetic extended out at a ninety-degree angle.

“A cane?” was all Qui-Gon could manage.

“Not just any cane,” Qlik replied excitedly. He ran his blue fingertips along the length of the device. “It’s made from the electrostave Skywalker recovered before you left Had Abbadon. He was kind enough to donate it to the Temple armory.”

“Forgive me, Qlik, but I don’t think I ever saw the thing in action. I was too busy dying on the floor.”

“It blocks lightsabers,” Qlik said with a knowing smile, his eyes eager for her to assimilate this piece of information.

At the news, Qui-Gon matched his expression. “Okay, now we’re talking.”

“A perfect mobility assistance device. Should keep the medics happy. Should _also_ allow you to defend yourself if you’re ever attacked.”

Qui-Gon nodded slowly, a smile still painted on her face. “Speaking of lightsabers . . . where’s mine?”

Qlik inhaled sharply and slowly set the metal cane down on the workbench. “It’s here, but . . . well, I’m sorry, really. The hospital has a campus-wide weapons ban. I, ah, had to take it apart to get it in here. Haven’t had a chance to put it back together.”

Qui-Gon shrugged, brushing off the fact that someone else had disassembled her weapon—better here in pieces than back at the Temple and locked away. “Go get it, would you? I’ll put it together myself.”

“I can’t.”

Qui-Gon’s face sank. “What do you mean you can’t?”

Qlik moved toward Qui-Gon, sitting down beside her and leaning in to speak at a low whisper. “The point of the cane is that you don’t need a lightsaber anymore. The Temple medical team told me not to give the saber back to you. It was a condition of my keeping it from just going into the armory.”

Heat rose within Qui-Gon; she took a deep breath and fought to keep the anger down. “They _what_ ? How am I supposed to fight anyone with _that_?” she asked, jabbing at the cane on the workbench. “Whacking someone over the head isn’t exactly a catch-all solution.”

“You’re not,” Qlik sighed, looking dejected. “Sort of the point.”

“Listen to me,” Qui-Gon said, intensity burning behind her eyes. “Qlik, I like you. Don’t take this personally. But I am a Jedi Knight. My destiny is not to study within the Temple walls. It is to get out there and fight for the galaxy. I am going to get well enough to do that, and when I do I’ll need a weapon. And if the Temple is too steeped in well-meaning blindness to see that—”

Qlik leaned back, rubbing his forehead. “I know. But I can’t disobey the medical team’s instructions. I can’t just give you your lightsaber.”

“Well then, Qlik, why the hell did you bother taking it apart and smuggling it in if you weren’t going to give it—”

Belatedly, she felt an _a-ha_ wash over her. Looked down at the metal cane resting on the workbench.

When she looked back up at Qlik, his expression had slipped back to its default of inexplicable guilt. Tentatively, she reached out with her senses to touch his feelings. Worry and sadness all the way down.

_You know, Jinn, you’re not nearly so smart as you like to think you are._

“You know,” she said to the Duros, lifting her hands in surrender, “you caught me on a bad day. I’m sorry. For everything.” As she said this, she did her best to imbue her presence with mingled gratitude and regret, hoping her companion would sense them.

“Not at all,” he said, looking down at the area beneath his feet. “Been through a lot.” Then, quickly, he lifted his head again, meeting her eyes. “Just glad you’re here.”

Gently, she smiled. “And I’m glad _you’re_ here. Sincerely.”

Before the patching up could awkwardly dissipate, she laid the wooden cane on the workbench and briskly rubbed her hands together. “Now then. I believe you were trying to finish your presentation to me.”

“Ah. I—yes.” Hesitantly, Qlik leaned closer. “As I said—the hospital forbids weapons. The Temple forbids you have a lightsaber in your possession. Ordinarily, the solution would seem unworkable.”

“Ordinarily,” Qui-Gon echoed, adding the slightest bit more emphasis to the adverb.

Nodding, his nervousness giving the motion vigor, Qlik leaned closer still, the movement almost conspiratorial. “However, nothing has been said about giving you the use of any . . . prototypes.”

“Like this,” she said, picking up the metal cane and rapping it against the table. Doing so, she felt the smile she’d pasted on for the sake of calming the quartermaster starting to slide into something far more real.

“Like that. Only, before I was, erm, interrupted, I was going to explain that your new cane is, well, not precisely finished.”

“I _see._ ” And indeed she thought she _could_ see, in more ways than one.

“Certain components need to be added. Tested. Only a person familiar with them should handle the prototype once it’s finished. For safety.” After a second, he looked around the room, and said in a harsh whisper, “If you get my meaning.”

Unbidden, a chuckle swept over her and through her throat.

In the moment, it was perhaps the nicest thing she’d ever felt.

“I think I do, Qlik,” she said, placing a hand on the metal rod. “One condition: I get to watch, right?”

Faint and jittery though it was, a smile of his own rose on the Duros’ face. “Always like an audience. Keeps things lively.” Turning, he headed for the door on the far side of the room. “I’ll get my tools.”

“Thank you,” Qui-Gon said, relief washing over her.

It wasn’t ideal. But it was a start.

“And hey,” she said, “while you’re up, see if this place has room service or something. I believe I owe you a drink.”


	4. In the Sights

Padmé looked down the barrel of her pistol at the clone, his ice-blue eyes taunting her. Inhaled through her nose. Exhaled through her mouth.

Squeezed the trigger.

_ Bang-bang-bang  _ went her first three shots, slamming into his chest—as he lurched forward she sent another volley into his torso, and to finish things up snapped off a finisher right between his eyes.

Well. That was the intent, anyway.

“ _ You came close that time, _ ” a voice said helpfully over the intercom. “ _ Scorch mark on the wall is only a couple of inches off. _ ” Then, meekly: “ _ Though your pattern is a little loose. _ ”

Rolling her eyes, Padmé stripped the mufflers from her ears and tossed her pistol onto the counter. “Thanks for the support, Liz.” At least the droid was the only one watching—Typhoon Division’s shooting range was not exactly the place she wanted to embarrass herself with her blaster skills.

The holographic target finished its jaunt forward, just a couple of feet away from her nose; sure enough, her shots to the clone’s chest were not grouped so much as distant cousins. “So the bad guy who tried to shoot me ended up clumsily dead instead of precisely dead. I feel like that’s still a win.”

“ _ I’d be the first to agree, though of course there’s some personal bias there, _ ” a new voice said over the comm, laced with wry amusement.

It was familiar, but at first she couldn’t place it. Then, she connected it to a face—the face of the man who’d overseen their victory parade after they’d landed on Alderaan. “Senator Organa?” Padmé asked, raising her eyebrows.

“ _ Bail, please. And yes. I’m here for a meeting with Obi-Wan, but I’m afraid I’ve gotten here quite a bit early. Figured you might want some company, and I could always stand to improve my shooting myself. If you don’t mind? _ ”

Idly venting her blaster with a hiss of escaping heat, she shrugged. “If you don’t mind Liz critiquing your pattern too.”

“It’ll hardly be the worst critique I’ve suffered in the last few months, believe me,” the senator said as the door swept open. He was dressed in all black today—perhaps, Padmé thought, still subconsciously nursing his recent ouster from executive office—and absent his usual cape. Greeting her with a nod, he pulled his own pistol from his belt.

Padmé whistled. “Shiny.”

“The Royal House of Alderaan doesn’t exactly skimp on their self-defense budget,” he said, reaching for a fresh power pack. “Yours has seen a bit more use, I see.”

She hefted the DL-22, taking in the nicks and scratches up and down a barrel that had presumably been shiny at one point. “Yeah, well, the Amidala self-defense budget was . . . a bit skimped on. Still shoots straight, though.” Slapping the vents closed, she offered it to her new boss for inspection. “Used an old windmill for target practice when I first got it, the neighbors weren’t very happy with me. Lately it’s mostly been used for killing giant bugs.”

Turning it over in his hand, Bail offered his own for her study. “Well, I can’t say the old Westar has gotten the same amount of use. I suppose if I ever really get the chance to shoot it, my security have failed their job.”

“Well, the nice thing about that job is if they fail, their boss won’t be around to yell at them,” she replied, smirking.

“Oh, you haven’t met Breha,” said boss replied, chuckling. “She’d give them a run for their money.”

“Guess I’d better get my pattern down, then, in case the clones attack and I have to save your life. Isn’t that right, Liz?”

“ _ I’m insulted by your assumption that I’m listening in, Amidala. _ ”

“Noted.” Turning back toward the targets, she gripped the DL-22 in both hands. “Come on, Senator. Let’s shoot something.”

* * *

“Y’know, I’m curious, what’d you guys use for holotargets before the war started up? I feel like shooting at clones before it was official would be frowned upon by higher-ups.”

“Droids, mostly. Don’t tell yours.”

“Oh, she’s harmless, really.”

Both their holotargets skated forward—Padmé’s grouping was tighter this round, while Bail had only managed to hit his target’s center mass three times but had also somehow pulled off a dead-center headshot. “Luck,” she said sourly, examining the scorch marks she’d left along the far wall.

“A certain mutual acquaintance of ours would say there’s no such thing,” the senator replied. “Though I’ll admit I’m rusty. Don’t think I made it down here more than once or twice when I was in the Chancellor’s chair.”

“Probably still more than your replacement will,” Padmé snorted. “Can’t really see him quickdrawing a blaster out of his robes.”

This elicited a slightly embittered chuckle. “I’m sure he’s bemoaning how little time he gets to spend at the opera now instead.”

“Well, he still finds the time to drag people to fancy restaurants,” she said, resetting their targets. The two clones fizzled out of existence, then reappeared at the other end of the range with a blue flicker of assembling light particles.

“Ah yes. And how  _ did _ dinner go?”

“Anakin likes him.”

Another twin volley of red plasma bolts; Padmé got her man in the throat, then jumped in surprise as its head suddenly exploded in a spray of hologram pixels. Darting her head to the right, she had just enough time to catch Bail’s pistol turning back toward his own target. “Hey!”

“Whoops, guess I got lucky.” Lowering his Westar, he looked over at her. “So, Anakin likes him. You?”

“Lemme put it this way. Seeing him on a regular basis is gonna be my least favorite part of being a Republic citizen.”

“I suppose we have the least favorite part of our jobs in common, then.” He shook his head. “The war is the important thing, I shouldn’t act like a schoolboy.”

On the contrary, Padmé thought to herself, the senator’s appeal increased quite a bit when he gave in to those schoolboy tendencies. She didn’t say so, though. “At least he realizes the best way to deal with the clones is to shoot them. Unlike your friend the Bothan.”

Bail snorted. “Tell me about it. It’s practically Senate tradition to pick the most annoying person possible as a Vice Chair, but Fosc was something else. And now we’re both on the Education Committee.” He sighed. “By appointment of the Chancellor. Speaking of schoolboy antics.”

“Woooow. I’m sure he has some five-minute monologue about how that decision makes perfect political sense, of course.”

“Oh, of course.” Pausing to examine his clone, Bail grimaced. “I hope Sapir is a positive influence on him, at least, speaking of Vice Chairs.”

“Hell, maybe Anakin can mind-trick him for you, once he learns to do that.” Gods,  _ that _ was a weird thought. She was used to her husband’s smaller abilities after years of being around them, and adrenaline had been flowing too hard through her veins for his display on the  _ Helios _ to faze her much at the time, but every so often she’d think about him doing some Jedi trick and feel the tiniest shiver. “Might as well make use of the visits while he has them.”

Frowning, Bail reset their targets. “Lovely as that idea sounds, according to Obi-Wan they only work on the weak-minded. Palpatine is many things, but that’s not one of them.”

The buzzer sounded, and the clones charged forward once more. Before Bail could move, Padmé swept her blaster toward his target on the right and squeezed.

_ Bam.  _ Dead center, a smoking hole positioned right between two death-white eyes.

“That’s the nice thing about blasters,” she said, spitting a couple more shots at her own clone’s torso. “They don’t care how strong your mind is.”

* * *

“Oseon,” Bail said, after another fifteen minutes of mutual one-upsmanship had ended in a draw. Flexing his fingers, he laid the Westar on the counter and stripped off his ear protection. “I’ve never been there, what’s it like?”

“Windy,” the woman replied, venting her blaster. “That’s the main power source, windfarms. Used to be a backwater, but then the corporations rolled in.” Her eyebrows drew together in a display of consternation that was a bit scary. “Screwed us over, basically. Industrialization eating up the smaller farms and natural areas, et cetera. And they’re independent companies, too, so no regulation to keep ‘em on a leash.”

“This happened when you were a child? I’m so sorry.”

“A child? Nope,” Padmé replied, rolling her eyes. “Geez, Palpatine was right about that, at least, you guys really  _ don’t _ pay attention to what goes on outside your borders. Happened a couple of centuries ago.”

Damn it, he hadn’t meant to offend her, especially not after hearing from Obi-Wan how long she could hold a grudge. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—you just phrased it as though it had happened recently.”

“Yeah, well, we have long memories on Oseon.” She shook her head. “Not your fault, forget it.”

“I do have to ask”—he hesitated, not wanting to tip the balance of the conversation even further into fraught territory—“from what I understand, you’ve said Oseon seems pretty opposed to joining the Republic. The corporate interests holding that opinion I’d understand, but if the local population is so opposed to unregulated industrialization, wouldn’t they have an interest in seeing some proper reforms come to the planet?”

“You choose the devil you know and whatnot. From what I hear, your guys’ initiation process isn’t a whole lot different from what we got the first time around.” The severity of her expression hadn’t increased, but it hadn’t exactly waned either. “Maybe get back to me about it when your successor is no longer in office.”

Considering himself duly warned, Bail was silent for a few moments. Padmé wiped at her blaster with a rag, cleaning it as best as possible. Finally, he cleared his throat and asked, “What do you miss the most?”

Gradually, her eyebrows unkitted themselves. “Flamewind night,” she said. “Gods, I miss that.”

The way she exhaled that initial  _ Gods _ was suffused with longing, an emotion so uncharacteristic that it almost took Bail aback. For a few moments, she seemed to lose fifteen years, a child holding a gun in her hands. “Flamewind?” he asked.

After a moment, she made a visible effort to dispel the aura of wistfulness that had gathered, shaking her head slightly. “Oh, it’s this radiation light show that happens every year or so in the upper atmosphere. It’s an excuse for the usual holiday stuff, and there’s this religious backstory to it. That kind of thing got old when I grew up, but the lights never did. You lie there in the dark and watch the colors dance across the sky and . . . yeah. Anyway.” Briskly, she plucked his Westar off the counter and started mopping at it with the rag. “How about you, when you’re away from Alderaan?”

Bail considered this for a few moments. “I should be a dutiful husband and tell you it’s Breha, of course.”

“I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming.”

Chuckling, he said, “Well, there’s this one mountain on the horizon that our bedroom in the palace overlooks. Mornings, when the sunrise hits, there are all these pinks and oranges reflecting off the snow at the peak. It makes me feel small, no matter how important my job is supposed to be. Politicians need that sort of reminder.”

“Aren’t we saps,” Padmé said, snorting. “Getting weepy over radiation and piles of rock.”

“ _ Yep, you organics get emotional over the stupidest things. _ ”

“Thanks for that, Liz.” Rolling her eyes, the woman holstered her gun, handed Bail back his. “Welp, it was nice to run into you, Senator—Bail, I mean. See you around sometime, I—”

_ Dammit, you spent so long setting things up you forgot to actually make the offer. _ “I was just about to grab some lunch in the mess, before I meet Obi-Wan,” Bail hastily said, cutting across the rest of her sentence. “Care to join me?”

The look she gave him was decidedly bemused and a bit annoyed at the interruption, but that was probably the best he was going to get. “Um, yeah, sure,” she said. “Just let me give Liz something to do first.”

“She’s, erm, welcome to come if she—”

“Trust me, you don’t want her watching you eat.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, the two of them sat across from each other at a table, piles of glop in front of them. “Better than ration packs, anyway,” Padmé told the senator, poking at it with her fork. “This is hot, at least.”

“You’d think with all the upped military spending going on as a result of the war we could afford some better culinary programming for the kitchen droids,” he said, grimacing slightly. “If the clones are eating this poorly, I understand their discontent.”

“Welp, I suppose I’d better get used to it,” she said, blowing on her forkful and shoving it into her mouth.

Shooting an inquisitive glance over his own utensil, Bail frowned. “Do you plan to be on the  _ Coelacanth  _ often?”

_ Ha, plan,  _ she thought to herself.  _ Funny word. _

The truth was she hadn’t the faintest idea what her next steps were going to be. Anakin was a Jedi now, great. And doubling as Obi-Wan’s personal pilot gave him an excuse to be here. But for the last couple of weeks she’d simply been sitting in their cabin at night waiting for someone onboard to decide the charade was over and kick her out. She served no purpose here.

And really, she wasn’t at all sure what purpose she was going to serve once she finally left the  _ Coelacanth _ , either. She and Anakin were partners, better or worse. Now that his job was officially one they couldn’t share, she would . . . go back home? Stay on Coruscant or Alderaan and take marks there? Start the shipping business all on her own?

Belatedly, she realized she’d spent several seconds without answering the question. “Oh, you know. I’ve got things lined up. I’ll be elsewhere when I’m not wanted, here to see Anakin when he’s not saving the galaxy. That sort of thing.” It was galling how insecure that response sounded, but she couldn’t take it back.

“Actually,” the senator said, after braving a mouthful of glop, “if you’re in the market, I must admit I had an ulterior motive for our shooting practice back there.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Yes, I heard about a job opening and I think you might be perfect for their needs.”

Not wanting to seem desperate, she simply held his gaze for a few seconds. Getting the message, he cleared his throat and continued. “It’s security, actually. Everyone on the Senate has their own team—the Chancellor has his secret service preselected, but the rest of us pick ourselves. Obi-Wan has had plenty of stories about your potential for derring-do—shooting bugs, driving swoops, piloting a piece of crap and somehow taking down a cruiser with it. And I’ve seen for myself your shooting isn’t bad at all. You’re canny, you’re stubborn, and when you have something you want done you’ll make sure it’ll happen. You might be a little  _ too _ stubborn for the liking of the team lead”—the corner of his mouth rose in a smirk there—“but a little independent thinking never hurt anyone.”

Padmé mulled it over. “‘Hired gun’ isn’t exactly the most glamorous occupation. I figure if I’m a hero I’ve maybe earned a bit more than that.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t just be standing around waiting to shoot things. You’d be following your boss around everywhere—Senate sessions, special diplomatic functions, and the like. You’d have firsthand experience of all the decisions that go into running the government, and now the war. Not a chance a lot of people get.”

Chewing, she mused, “And I could keep an eye on that slimy bastard in the Chancellor’s seat.”

“Well, not an  _ especially _ close eye, but yes, you would be seeing him fairly often.”

“Pay? Benefits?”

“Well, it’s not like you’d be rich, but certainly comfortable.”

“Organa. The number, please.”

A bark of laughter escaped his lips. “Wow, no one has called me “Organa” in ages besides . . . well, Fosc.” Leaning slightly closer, Bail said, “60,000 to start with. Plus room and board, and on-the-job expenses. Transport. Et cetera.”

Against her will, she felt herself starting to smile back. “You’ll have to throw in a yearly bonus if I manage to keep you from getting killed.”

“ _ Me? _ ”

“No offense, Bail, but you’re not exactly a subtle operator for being a politician. I knew you were the one hiring from the second you told me you heard about a job opening.”

“Oof, that bad, huh? I suppose I should consider myself grateful you aren’t working for Palpatine.” Chuckling, he returned to his fully upright posture. “So what do you say? It would definitely keep you and Anakin close; you’d both be working for Alderaan. And I’ll be honest, the more staff members I don’t have to keep Obi-Wan’s identity a secret from the better.”

She snorted. “I’m sure your Vice Chair would have taken it well.” And then, she simply stared off into the distance for a few moments.

Working directly for the Republic. Definitely not what she would have had in mind when she left home. But then again, would she ever have pictured herself being married to a Jedi?

“Do I get to keep my own blaster?” she finally asked. “The Westar is a little flimsy for my taste.”

Bail smiled, and held out his hand. “Ms. Amidala, far be it from me to make you do anything you don’t want to.”

Grinning herself, Padmé Amidala reached across the table and shook hands with her new employer. “Senator Organa, I do believe we can do business together.” 


	5. The Way of the Sith

Cold. Heat. The saber that Maul gave her contained both at once, a constant paradox—the plasma was hot enough to boil flesh, cauterizing it with the lightest touch, but even when the blade was burning the metal hilt somehow stayed cool, smooth, clarifying. Activating the weapon often was out of the question—it would not do for someone to walk in on her and see the weapon of a Jedi ( _ a Sith _ ) being brandished about the room. But Valis often held that cold steel cylinder in her hands, turning it over. Thinking.

Maul had asked her down to his quarters only once more since his return to the  _ Charybdis _ . She’d brought the lightsaber without question, assuming she’d need it. And indeed, as soon as she’d stepped within the room the door had sealed and two blades of crimson plasma had spouted from his hands.

Summoning her own blade had taken a moment—she’d fumbled for the activation switch, still unused to the lightsaber’s layout. If Maul had actually meant to kill her, her head would have been rolling across the floor. Instead, he’d simply tossed a contemptuous look at her, then thrust forward.

The game of thrust, parry, riposte, block, slash, had gone on for a few seconds before Valis had frozen, Maul’s weapon humming an inch from her windpipe. It couldn’t have surprised the bastard—she’d used the vibrosword that hung on her wall on more than one occasion, but he’d trained to kill Jedi for years—and yet there was still a torch of frustration that burned behind his eyes.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he’d hissed. Before she could press him for an explanation, he’d withdrawn his saber and started swinging again.

The back and forth had continued for fifteen minutes, with Valis losing the point every few, until she’d shouted in frustration and swiped at Maul’s horns. Maybe it was her exasperation, maybe he’d tired himself out beating her, but for a split second she thought that she’d been too fast for him; it was almost as though she could  _ see _ him moving before he moved, his head ducking too late and her saber clipping through the tips of the protuberances.

But then time had sped up again, and Maul had ducked, and she’d overextended and almost fallen to the floor.

The Zabrak had deactivated his saber, then, a glint of some unknown emotion in his eye. “Better.”

Hauling herself back upright, she’d spat and returned her own weapon to her belt. “And this was supposed to accomplish . . . what, exactly?”

When no answer had come, she’d looked around the chamber, noticing for the first time that the stones that had previously ringed its edge were no longer intact. They formed a powdered circle of debris, shattered into dust—dust that no doubt clung to the soles of her boots.

“Keep your secrets,” she’d growled at the warlord, turning on her heel. “I have a war to plan.”

* * *

The weeks after Had Abbadon had officially spiraled into war had been a propaganda campaign as much as anything. They could not afford to look reactive, Valis knew—if the Confederacy moved to consolidate its gains, defending them from Republic encroachments, they’d look weak, illegitimate. Their forces had to hit, and hit hard.

First up was a Republic outpost on Bethnar, a nothing world that was nevertheless a vital communications hub. Two  _ Victory _ -class Star Destroyers orbited the planet, one on the dayside and one on the dark side, guns bristling and ready for the cluster of deathbox frigates that was probably headed their way.

Valis took the  _ Charybdis _ in alone.

She ordered the flagship into the system with missile tubes already flooded, a maneuver that raised a number of eyebrows among her bridge crew—the extreme volatility of hyperspace made detonation in the tubes extremely likely. To minimize this, she had her crew make a series of microjumps first, til they lay just outside the system on the hyperlane. Then, tubes primed, they made the final leap.

Ten very tense seconds later, they emerged in Bethnar’s gravity well, missiles unexploded and hot in the tubes. The instant the  _ Charybdis _ popped up on the first Star Destroyer’s sensor screen, Valis gave the command to fire.

By the time the second  _ Victory _ ship emerged from the dark side of the planet, its brother was nothing but smoking wreckage.

As ground forces moved in to secure the planet, Valis raised a glass of wine with the bridge crew, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. Even those of Melko’s friends who remained, she noticed, seemed cheerier than usual. And well they should be. Their admiral had completed her first battle by taking an entire system singlehanded, without so much as scratching the ship’s paint.

The glow lasted until she happened to turn from watching the trails of the ground transports’ engines grow fainter and fainter out the viewport. Maul was standing at the edge of the bridge, just outside the doors, staring at her.

When she met his eye, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

* * *

Two, three, four more systems went down in the week following this initial thrust—lightning strikes, always against backwater planets at the edge of Republic space, always the  _ Charybdis _ working alone. The last one left Valis feeling a bit shaky—the intelligence they’d received, that the planet was guarded by another two  _ Victory _ cruisers, had been inaccurate. Instead, her ship had gone toe-to-toe with a  _ Venator _ -class Star Destroyer, red-striped and dotted from head to tail with turbolaser batteries. For the first time, the  _ Charybdis  _ was wounded—Valis swore she could feel her ship keen beneath her when a well-placed missile took out its forward sensor array, as though it were a living mount she’d let down. Ultimately, they secured the day, but as she collapsed into a chair afterward, her chamber door swishing closed behind her, Mate chittered with an incoming communication.

_ Admiral Valis, _ it had read simply.  _ Your bravado is admirable, but the Confederacy was intended to win wars, not to waste flagships in one-on-one combat. I have been monitoring proceedings, and your strategy, while it has borne fruit so far, is not one that can continue. _

This was, she realized with a start, the person she’d sent Kelvin Wray to look into. The nameless figure no one spoke of. Maul’s boss.

Though there was no one sentient to make an impression to, she found herself scoffing out loud to Mate anyway. “What does he think I’ve got to work with? I’m admiral of a bunch of scrap heaps, not a fleet.”

Mate chirped and inclined its body, as if to say  _ Keep going. _ Rubbing at her forehead, Valis turned back to the letter.

_ You have done brilliantly under the circumstances, especially considering that Had Abbadon was supposed to be a stepping stone, not the start of full conflict. That said, our plans must be accelerated. _

_ A group of interested parties has taken interest in the Confederacy’s cause, and show a willingness to contribute funding and materials. You and Lord Maul are to rendezvous with them in neutral space to discuss an alliance, and the formation of what can properly be called a Confederate Government—a  _ true _ sovereignty, not the terrorist rabble we are accused of being. You shall, of course, defer to Lord Maul in all particulars. _

Following this was a dossier of the “interested parties.” Valis scanned it in silence for a few seconds, her heart starting to beat faster. Then she ordered the droid, “Buzz Maul’s quarters.”

Buzz it did, for nearly five minutes, before the warlord answered. “ _ What. _ ”

“I assume you received the same information I just did?” the admiral demanded. “From . . . whoever it is that pulls your strings?”

The jab had been intended to rile him, but from the sound of his voice he was far more irritated at said puppet master. “ _ Yes. _ ”

“Maul, this is . . . who  _ is _ he?” She ran her eyes over the dossier again, hearing the disbelief in her own voice. “He’s got  _ gigantic  _ corporations preparing to meet with us—Czerka, Sluis Van, MWMS. With their backing, we could—this is the makings of a war machine right here.”

“ _Isn’t that what you wanted?_ ” he asked bluntly. “ _To hurt the Republic?_ ”

Well, yes, it was—but that was  _ all _ it had been. To  _ hurt _ them. To make them bleed. Not to actually  _ beat _ them. Until five minutes ago, that hadn’t been a possibility worth considering.

“ _ Get down here, _ ” the Zabrak growled without warning. “ _ We have things to do. _ ”

* * *

Half an hour later, the warlord whipped his lightsaber toward the floor, burying the length of plasma in metal grating. Fury pulsed across his face. “What,” he spat, “is wrong with you?”

Valis, in the midst of cursing at the angry red line of burn Maul’s saber had left across her shoulder, hissed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know. If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t have come down here. Or you would have come only to shout nonsense at me endlessly.”

The sentences sent a chill through her in spite of the searing pain in her shoulder. The change she’d seen in Maul since Had Abbadon was something she still hadn’t gotten used to. True, what he’d just lobbed at her was still an insult, but where before it would have been monosyllabic, curt, sullen, now it had . . . some degree of nuance.

Rubbing harder at her shoulder, she looked down at the powdered stone that still littered the floor.  _ What is  _ happening _ to him? _

“You know what you did down here,” the warlord continued, glaring at her with amber eyes. “What you did to Melko, before, when he made you angry. And yet now, when you know what you can touch, you close yourself off.”

And he was right, she  _ did _ know what he was talking about—Melko choking in the middle of a sentence, her acrobatics in this very chamber, the way time had slowed when she swung for Maul’s head—but she shoved this away, rejected it, shook her head vehemently. “I have a war to run, Maul. I haven’t time for this.”

“The dark side has business with you,” he spat as she started to turn away, the conviction in his voice freezing her on the spot. “It awakened you for a reason. It won’t let you simply ignore it.”

To respond would be to justify him, she thought to herself. Instead, she simply squared her shoulders and began the stride back to the turbolift.

* * *

“Let me be brief, Admiral,” droned Welleth Mekosk, human head of Czerka Arms Corporation, in the midst of being anything but. “The Confederacy is in desperate need of resources, and all of us here are interested in supplying. But our considerations  _ must _ be reciprocated in return! Your leader has already laid out the plans for the Board—”

“—without consulting either of us—” Valis interrupted, trying to get a word in edgewise.

“—and it seems to us an eminently reasonable system!” Mekosk finished, raising a satin-gloved hand along with his voice. “It is not as though the Executive Board would  _ replace _ your authority or that of Lord Maul’s—you both have voting seats on the Board for that very reason.” At this, he glanced over at Maul and sniffed, as though to disparage the idea of this tattooed monstrosity understanding the concept of democratic rule. Valis felt a flash of irritation rise within her on the Zabrak’s behalf, and was immediately furious both at herself for the sympathetic impulse and at Mekosk for summoning it with his insufferable speechmaking.

Around the circular conference table, fluorescent light bathing them in its harsh glow, the other prospective “Board members” nodded in agreement with Mekosk. Arms dealers, financiers, miners, shipyards—there were a dozen groups represented in all, with three things in common. They were all very rich, they all lay outside Republic control, and they were all absolutely despised by the admiral and the warlord who’d joined their meeting.

“We’re fighting the Republic to put an end to them sticking their nose into other planets’ business,” Valis said evenly, fighting to keep her tone neutral as possible. “Giving all of you a majority rule for the Confederacy is simply putting a new face on the same crimes—”

“I’m sorry,” interrupted Mekosk, something stern entering into his voice, “perhaps your leader did not make the situation clear to you. When I said you are in desperate need of resources, I was not exaggerating. The Confederacy will wither on the vine unless they have the material necessary to wage war, and thanks to Bail Organa’s foolishness you have no choice but to engage. If any of us here wish to, we can simply offer our assistance to the Republic’s new Chancellor and wipe you off the map within a few months.” The rising consternation in his tone was met by the growing smirk that threatened to swallow his entire face. “And your leader realizes this. The meeting is a formality. The Board  _ is _ the Confederacy.”

He let silence hang in the air for several moments. Valis looked over at Maul, whose head was lowered. She could feel the quiet fury pouring off the Zabrak, knew his amber eyes were doing their best to burn a hole through the table—and yet he said nothing. Probably, she thought to herself, because he could see the trap they’d fallen into as plainly as she could.

Mekosk was right. The Board was the only way forward.

“Now,” the head of Czerka continued, his face a quintessence of smugness, “may we shake hands and finalize this arrangement?”

After Valis had done her level best to break everyone’s hand while appearing polite, and Maul had pointedly made no such effort, Mekosk said almost casually, “Ah, one last order of business. It would appear that our mutual benefactor has decided that I shall chair the Board for the foreseeable future. You, and you,” he inclined his head to Valis and Maul, “will, of course, maintain jurisdiction in your spheres, but it’s best to keep multiple perspectives on any situation, is it not?”

Fifteen minutes later, Maul and Valis were the last ones in the conference room. The warlord paced back and forth, as if trying to wear a track through the tile; Valis simply sat back in her chair, trying to process what had just happened.

“The Mekosk act is a great front, I’ll give him that,” she finally said, without looking at Maul. “Manipulate things from behind the scenes, convince everyone you’re some shadowy all-powerful force moving pieces around when you’re really just right here, chairing the board you assembled to shut the military out of their own war.”

A prickling on the back of her neck was enough for her to know the warlord’s eyes had landed on her. “What?” he hissed, sounding ready to vent his seething frustration on her at any moment.

“Your boss. Like I said, it’s a brilliant move. Though you’ll have to tell me how the head of Czerka found you.”

Maul made a sound very close to humorless laughter, which was somehow the most disconcerting thing he’d ever done. “That—that  _ thing _ is not my master.”

Valis shrugged. “Damn. Well, you can’t blame me for trying.”

“If only you tried at the things that truly mattered,” the Zabrak growled.

It was the first and last time she tried a joke with him.

* * *

The  _ Charybdis  _ sailed alone through hyperspace. Officers buzzed about on the bridge, moving from one station to another in preparation for the upcoming battle. In the center of the flurry of activity, Valis sat motionless in her command chair, eyes scanning across the datapad cradled in her hand. 

She mindlessly reached her free hand up to tug at the collar of her uniform. For appearance’s sake, she’d swapped her usual black outfit for a far fancier—and far less comfortable—all-white admiral’s uniform. This was to be the debut of the new power of the Galactic Confederacy, and she had dressed for the occasion.

Behind her, someone cleared their throat, causing Valis to glance up from her datapad. “Sixty seconds to dropout, ma’am,” the junior crewmember offered, following his delivery of the news with a perfectly professional nod.

“Thank you,” Valis replied. She stood and handed the datapad to the officer, then adjusted the cuffs of her tunic. “Comms is ready to connect us upon arrival?”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“And weapons are powered down?” 

“They are, Admiral.”

She nodded. “Very good. Back to your station, then.”

The officer snapped into a salute and held the pose. Valis glanced sideways at him, then sighed. “You’re dismissed, Serviceman. No need for. . . that.” She gestured slightly at his rigid posture.

He relaxed, if only slightly. “Understood, Admiral. I . . . the Board sent out a memo instructing us to strictly observe protocol.”

The admiral clenched her teeth. “Well, you don’t report to the Board. You report to  _ me _ . Are we clear?” 

“Aye aye,” the officer muttered sheepishly before spinning around to return to his post. 

_ The Board,  _ Valis grumbled inwardly.  _ Our first battle under them hasn’t even started and they’re  _ already  _ a pain in my ass.  _ It had also not escaped her notice that some of her staff seemed more inclined to follow directives from corporate heads they’d never met than they were to follow her own.

A call from the helm pulled Valis back into the moment. “Dropping out of hyperspace,” began the helm officer. “Three . . . two . . .”

On “one,” the blue swirl outside the viewport smeared, then collapsed into a thousand points of light. Dwarfing the collection of pinpoint torches was a swirling marble of green—the gas giant Kril’Dor. A tibanna gas mining facility was the planet’s only notable feature. Though technically independent, the mine’s close working relationship with the Republic had earned it a defense complement consisting of multiple  _ Venator  _ Star Destroyers—Star Destroyers which were now moving to close in on the  _ Charybdis.  _

Valis stood tall, her hands clasped behind her back. She pitched her chin slightly upward—it likely looked a bit snooty, but that would only add to the impression she was hoping to convey once comms came online.

“They’re hailing us, Admiral,” an officer spoke up from the comms station.

“Put them through.”

In the center of the bridge, a blue-tinted figure appeared—the holographic representation of a Republic Star Destroyer captain. The man’s clean-cut appearance grated on Valis; even through the static of the projection, his beard was somehow  _ too  _ neat, his jawline  _ too  _ perfect. His expertly tailored uniform looked as though it had been pressed only minutes ago—unlikely, Valis had to concede to herself, but irritating nonetheless. 

She was going to enjoy this.

“ _ Identify yourself,”  _ the hologram said. The tone was tense, uncertain, and shaky. 

_ He knows he’s up against a warship,  _ Valis thought.  _ Weapons offline or not, we scare him. Good.  _ She inhaled sharply, then spoke aloud. “This is Admiral Sephone Valis of the cruiser  _ Charybdis.  _ You are?”

“ _ Captain Farrat of the Republic Star Destroyer  _ Unity _ ,”  _ the man replied. Even through the fuzz of the hologram, Valis could read his leery expression. “Charybdis  _ is a known Confederate vessel, Admiral. You’re aware we’re at war?”  _

“I am. I’d prefer if we could talk, Captain. These space battles always get so messy.”

“ _ You want to . . . talk?”  _

“Our weapons are offline. We are prepared to receive a boarding party. What do you think?”

The fact that _Charybdis_ had no support ships and, by itself, was no match for several Star Destroyers at once seemed to be slowly settling over the captain; it _also_ seemed to be dawning on him that he had the only known admiral of the Confederacy within his grasp. His projection scoffed. “ _I think you’re a dumbass coming here all by yourself. We have three_ Venator _Star Destroyers in orbit, and a_ Victory _-class ship in atmosphere protecting the primary mining facility. We are moving within turbolaser range, and once we have a target lock we will open fire. The Republic will dispatch you handily, Valis.”_

“We’ll see.”

As those two words left Valis’ mouth, a sequence of events was set into motion. In the engine room of the  _ Charybdis _ , secondary and tertiary power generators spun to life. On the bridge, the comm officer pressed a single button on her console. And deep within the cruiser’s structure, a massive gravity well projector came online. 

The lights on the bridge dimmed briefly as the gravity well projector’s massive power draw hit the generators within the  _ Charybdis _ . Valis felt a tight smile forming on her face. This new toy had been financed by Muunilist Wealth Management, built by the Techno Union, and installed into her flagship at Sluis Van Shipyards—and now it was going to help the Confederacy capture its own tibanna gas mine.  _ I suppose,  _ she thought,  _ going corporate has certain advantages _ . 

The cones of the gravity well—invisible to the naked eye, but highlighted by sensors embedded in the bridge viewport—extended beyond the approaching Star Destroyers. A perfect trap. 

“ _ A gravity well?”  _ The Republic captain’s question was distorted and staticky. _ “You know, you’re supposed to use those to trap people in a system you already control. Keeping us here is only going to cause you problems.” _

Valis waved a dismissive hand at the projection before her. “It’s not for you.”

The distinctive  _ thunk  _ of a ship dropping out of hyperspace sounded over the auditory simulators. Once. Twice. Then, too many times to count. Ships winked into existence behind the cluster of  _ Venators, _ sandwiching the Star Destroyers between the new Confederate fleet and the  _ Charybdis.  _ Starfighters swarmed the Republic ships like angry bees, cruisers and frigates hung back and opened fire. Through it all, Valis shot the holographic projection of the Republic captain a devilish grin, then made a slashing motion across her throat. 

The hologram disappeared, and the admiral spun around to face her command chair. “Power up our weapons,” she ordered as she sat back down, “and fire at will.” 

* * *

Winds whipped at Valis’ face as she stood on the balcony of the Kril’dor mining facility’s administrative wing, staring out across the endless expanse of clouds. The formerly blue-green hue of the gas giant’s horizon had been traded for a gentle yellow as the sun had started to set—both on the mining platform and on the Confederacy’s operation.

It had taken only a handful of hours to capture the space above the gas giant. The planetside operation, on the other hand, had taken the better part of two days. The need to capture the entire mining facility intact had necessitated a rather surgical approach. 

They’d spent hours upon hours dumping wetworks onto the facility’s various landing platforms, sending them pouring into the tight corridors in the hopes they wouldn’t destroy anything, making coordinated attacks on remote harvester platforms floating elsewhere on the planet—all while the  _ Charybdis  _ lurked in orbit, ensuring nobody escaped the system to call for backup.

It had been a great relief when Valis had finally touched down on the facility platforms to observe the handiwork of her troops. She’d watched—in mixed awe and horror—as the ground team commander had, for lack of a better term, “dealt with” the mining facility’s former administrator. The administrator had attempted to renege on his earlier surrender to the Confederacy; in response, the wetwork in charge of capturing the office complex had shot the administrator in the throat, dragged the body to the administrative landing platform, and dumped it off the edge to fall into the clouds below.

It was this same landing platform that Valis now stood on, wind tossing about her hair and threatening to put out the lit cigarette that sat pinched between her fingers. She brought the cigarette up to her lips and took another drag; as she exhaled, the smoke dissipated and was carried away into the breeze. 

The howl of Kril’dor’s wind formed a harmony with a new, distant noise—one that Valis couldn’t help but recognize, faint though it was. The whine of a very specific engine slowly rose in volume to join the wind noise—Maul’s  _ Scimitar  _ had arrived planetside _.  _ The warlord’s vessel emerged from behind a veil of clouds, coming to a stop over the landing platform before lowering down onto it. 

The  _ Scimitar _ ’s boarding ramp slid down onto the platform; Maul was perched at the edge of it, and stepped off onto the landing pad before the ramp had touched down. “You!” he snarled, barely audible through the whipping winds, his cloak flapping about wildly. “You did it again.” 

“Did  _ what _ ?” Valis shot back, taking another drag of the cigarette as soon as she’d spat out the question. 

“You resisted the Force. You had a chance, at the beginning. I could feel your anger. You could have opened yourself up to the dark side, carried that power through the entire battle, but you didn’t.”

She inhaled through the cigarette one final time before throwing it at Maul’s feet. “And done what, exactly?” she rasped, the smoke in her lungs briefly lowering her voice. “Pulled their ships out of the sky with my mind? Made our troops fight harder by just telling them to?”

The frustration in his expression feathered toward outright anger at her blasphemy, but before he could interrupt she spoke over him. “Ever since I started this job, it’s the same thing. You tell me nothing, then act disappointed. You give me vague instructions, then sneer when they aren’t carried out properly. And just when the war finally bloody starts, you expect me to focus my attention on  _ magic tricks _ ?”

Stepping forward, she held his gaze. Their proximity made her notice, for the first time, that she was slightly taller than he, something she drew an inexplicable pleasure from. “I simply acted the only way I know how,” she continued. “You hired me to run a fleet, and that’s what I’ve been doing. Now you want me to follow your example. If you’d bother to  _ show me  _ something, to actually teach me what the hell you want me to do, then maybe I’d live up to your expectations.”

A snarl played across Maul’s face; he looked ready to lash out at Valis with some sort of violence.  _ Pity I didn’t bring the bloody lightsaber,  _ she thought to herself; it was with her old uniform back on the ship.

But nothing happened. Warlord and admiral stood on the landing platform, wind swirling around them, gazes locked on each other, for far longer than either of them was truly comfortable with.

Finally, Maul broke the silence. 

“Get on,” he growled, motioning behind him to the waiting  _ Scimitar _ .

“Why?” a defiant Valis hissed back. 

“You want me to show you something? Get on board.”

* * *

A high-pressure  _ hiss  _ signaled the opening of the  _ Scimitar _ ’s cockpit door. Valis had been pacing in the space outside the cockpit for what had felt like several hours—she stopped as the door opened, glancing over to see Maul silhouetted in the doorway as the blue light of hyperspace shone behind him.

“That was our final jump,” he said, stepping fully out of the cockpit as the door slid closed behind him. “We should arrive soon.”

“We’ve been gone for over two days, Maul,” Valis said. “What am I supposed to tell the Board?” 

His jaundiced eyes grew wide and he bared his teeth. “You tell them nothing of this trip. Lie about it if they ask. Shouldn’t be too hard for you.” When she acknowledged this with a stiff nod, he continued: “They cannot know where we are going.”

“ _ I  _ still don’t know where we’re going,” she replied. 

“It is not my place to tell you.”

“Of course it isn’t,” she muttered. Then, loud enough for Maul to hear: “Can you tell me why we’re going . . . wherever it is we’re going?”

“You resist the pull of the dark side. You block out the calls of the Force. It stops today. If we are to destroy the Jedi, you must accept your destiny.”

She leaned forward in her chair, placing her elbows on her knees. “And what destiny is that?”

He paused and inhaled deeply before answering. “The light of the Jedi has grown too strong in the galaxy. The Force has answered this with darkness.” He gestured to indicate Valis. “This darkness will rise”—he lifted a hand into the air, lingered briefly, then closed the hand to make a fist—”and snuff out the light.”

“We’ll create an order of Sith to rival that of the Jedi?”

He scoffed. “No. You will soon see why that is not the way.” 

Valis leaned back in her seat, raising her eyebrows. “So there  _ was _ a Sith Order before?” 

“There was.”

“What happened?”

The Sith Lord shook his head. “It is not my place to tell you that either.”

“If you won’t tell me, who will?” Valis asked. 

“When you are ready to know these things, the Force will show you the answers.”

Silence lingered between Valis and Maul for several minutes—he paced across the room as she sat back in her chair and considered his words. She closed her eyes and tried as best she could to—as Maul had said back on Kril’dor—“open herself up” to the dark side of the Force. Whatever that meant.  _ Give me answers. Whatever you are, give me answers. _

Nothing greeted her but a vague sense of dread.

The  _ Scimitar  _ lurched, rocking Valis in her seat. It was the familiar movement of dropping out of hyperspace. She looked up and glanced around the room; she hadn’t noticed Maul leave, but he was gone, presumably up in the cockpit. 

Her assumption was confirmed when the Zabrak emerged from the fore and delivered a gravelly announcement: “We’re here.” He spun around to return to his seat at the controls.

In that instant, another feeling joined the sense of dread: a familiar chill. She’d felt it before when she’d broken in to Maul’s meditation chamber on the  _ Charybdis _ . It had radiated off the rocks lining the chamber’s perimeter. The rocks her droid had identified as coming from—

“Korriban.” The word left her mouth as a breathy whisper, her eyes glazed over as she said it. 

Maul froze, turning slowly away from the ship’s viewport to face the seated admiral. “Very good,” he rasped. 

_ Give the man one bit of credit,  _ she thought to herself.  _ When he decides to do something to spite you, he doesn’t do it by halves. _

“What’s down there?” 

He did not answer her question immediately, instead pausing as if to consider. When several seconds had passed, he spoke: “Darkness. Strength. Power. Freedom.”

Maul stepped back into the cockpit and closed the door. As the  _ Scimitar  _ streaked down towards Korriban’s surface, Valis was left alone with her thoughts—and Maul’s words.

She wanted to feel exhilarated, to hunger for the power and the strength that Korriban offered. To feel, somehow, that her quest for answers was about to be in some sense fulfilled. To embrace the person she was somehow meant to be. Instead, there was just the cold.

Cold and dread.


	6. Saber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Just a note that, due to Christmas Eve, we’ll be taking a break from posting a new chapter this Monday. _Fragments_ will resume a week from today and conclude the following Monday!

A figure clad in black stood against the infinite sheet of white. The snow rippled in waves where the wind had formed it into drifts, and frozen flakes whipped about in miniature tornados. 

_ Kssssssk-haaaaah.  _ As the man in black exhaled through the respirator mask clamped over his face, his breath condensed into wispy clouds. Wrapped head to toe in cold-weather gear, the man held a pair of electrobinoculars up to his eyes and panned them across the horizon. Dissatisfied with what he found, he lowered the binoculars and turned around.

_ Kssssssk-haaaaah.  _ Another breath. More condensation formed on the outside of the respirator. The man eyed the steel-gray wedge parked into the snowbank before him. A starfighter—his shelter against the elements. Stuffing the electrobinoculars into the bag slung across his body, he clambered up the starfighter’s hull and settled into the cockpit.

A hiss of pressurized air sounded as Anakin Skywalker pulled the respirator off his face and sighed deeply. As his V-wing’s cockpit bubble closed, he leaned back in the pilot’s chair. “The Jedi sure know how to pick their holy sites,” he muttered. 

In response, a series of beeps sounded from the V-wing’s data screen. Text scrolled across it as if it were being typed in real time.  **Ilum’s atmosphere is breathable. Your respirator mask is meant for space travel—it is not required outside.**

“I know,” the pilot replied. “I just needed something to cover my face. Is it always this cold here?” 

**The temperature is average for this season. However, the high winds likely contribute to it feeling colder for organic lifeforms.**

“Thanks,” Anakin said, turning to look over his shoulder at the gray-and-white R3 astromech socketed aft of the V-wing’s cockpit. “I don’t know how I got by without you. Before I had an astromech droid, I had  _ no idea  _ how wind chill worked.” 

**I am perfectly capable of serving a variety of useful functions,** the droid replied, a disgruntled  _ beep  _ sounding as the text scrolled across the data screen in front of Anakin. 

“Of course you are,” the pilot said. “You’re so much more to me than a weather droid.”

**For example,** the droid continued, ignoring Skywalker’s jab,  **I can use the hyperdrive ring we left in orbit to perform a planetary scan. Would you like me to search the planet for any artificial structures?**

“No,” Anakin said as his eyes darted back-and-forth across the text display. “Don’t scan for anything. The point is that I’m supposed to find the Temple myself.” 

**Airborne visual scanning of the entire planet would take several days. Searching on foot is impossible. How do you expect to locate this Temple without assistance?**

“The Force will guide me,” Anakin answered. After a moment, he added: “At least, that’s what Obi-Wan said would happen.” 

**I detect a sense of uncertainty.**

“Look at that! Weather forecasts  _ and  _ psychoanalysis. Quite the skill set, Voxel.”

**My designation is R3-VXL. I would appreciate it if you’d refer to me as such.**

“We don’t always get what we want, Voxel,” Anakin said, the signature Skywalker grin creeping up his face. He slouched in the pilot’s chair, his puffy winter coat bunching up around him, and glanced over at the satchel he’d carried outside with him. Picking it up and shaking the dusting of snow off the outside, he peeked in to view its contents. 

A cylinder of silver metal glinted as the light hit it—perfectly polished, it shone like the chromium plating of a luxury yacht. Anakin ran his mechanical thumb around the circumference of the device. Along the bottom he’d attached several black rubber implements to serve as a handgrip—salvaged from the stun baton he’d once carried, they gave the cylinder a familiar feel. 

Anakin extracted the cylinder and felt the weight as he hefted it up and down. It was lighter than it should have been—this owing to the fact that it was missing a key component. The component he was here on Ilum to retrieve. Then, and only then, would it be a proper lightsaber—the weapon of a Jedi Knight. 

For several minutes he held the lightsaber in both hands, cradling it delicately. Closing his eyes, Anakin focused on his breath, stretching out into the unknown and calling for guidance. He saw nothing but falling snow. When he was confident that was all he was going to get, he allowed his eyes to flutter open.

Placing the saber hilt back inside the satchel, he inhaled deeply. He had hoped concentrating on the weapon would give him some sense of direction, that the Force might nudge him and indicate where to go next. It hadn’t worked. Exhaling, he turned again to look back at his R3 unit. 

“Okay, R3-VXL,” he said, properly addressing the astromech, “maybe a little scan wouldn’t hurt. Nothing too precise, just something to give me an idea of where to start looking.”

**Understood,** the droid’s reply scrolled across the data screen,  **I will perform a scan of the area.**

Moments later, Anakin jumped in his seat as a harsh alarm blared within the cockpit. 

**Proximity alert. A major storm system is approaching from the northwest. Extreme blizzard conditions are imminent.**

“Why didn’t you warn me before?” 

**I offered to perform a scan earlier. You instructed me not to scan for anything.**

“I  _ meant  _ I didn’t want you to search for the Temple, you could have warned me about—” Anakin paused, realized it was pointless to argue with the droid, and groaned to himself. “Okay, okay. What are our options? I don’t really want to try flying such a light ship in a blizzard. We could just sit here and wait it out.” 

**The snowfall brought on by the blizzard will likely bury the starfighter if we remain parked here.**

As if to underscore the threat, the V-wing’s cockpit glass rattled, buffeted by winds. 

Anakin winced as the starfighter groaned under the gale. “Okay, so we take off now and out-fly it.”

**That will likely be effective. Performing pre-flight startup sequence.**

Anakin joined the droid in powering up the ship’s engines. His hands expertly flew from one switch to the next, the whir of the V-wing a reassuring sensation; even though he’d only had the fighter for a couple of months, he’d gotten the startup sequence as engrained in his memory as the  _ Dancer _ ’s. As he thumbed the button that sparked the twin engines, Anakin could faintly hear the snow just aft of the ship flash-boiling into steam. Two hands—the left organic, the right a sleek sculpture of black carbon fiber—gripped the fighter’s control yoke and yanked it back.

Anakin was pinned back in his seat as the V-wing shot into the sky. He banked the fighter hard to port, and for a moment the oncoming blizzard lingered before him in the viewport. 

Then he froze.

Something was calling him. Beckoning him to fly not away from the blizzard, but  _ into  _ it.

**Continue your maneuver,** R3-VXL buzzed; the speed at which the text scrolled across the cockpit data screen was evidence of the droid’s panic.  **If we burn hard enough, we will outrun the storm.**

“We’re not supposed to outrun it,” Anakin whispered to himself. “Buckle up, Voxel. This might get interesting.”

**My designation is R3—**

Anakin reached his mechanical hand forward and toggled the data screen off, then slammed the throttle, sending the ship into a full burn towards the oncoming storm. As the interceptor approached the whirlwind of snow, Anakin could feel the yoke rattle in his hands. The starfighter was fighting back against his inputs, as if it had ceased to become a machine and morphed into a living thing. The wall of white outside the window grew ever closer, finally swallowing the V-wing whole.

He was at the mercy of the blizzard now. Instinctively he reached a hand upward and toggled the fighter’s s-foils.  _ They’ll get sheared right off the ship if I leave them open,  _ he thought to himself. As the radiator panels folded in to the body of the craft, Anakin’s heart leapt into his throat. The sudden drop in the V-wing’s wind resistance sent it careening down— _ at least, I think this is down— _ and into a tight spiral. 

A hard pull back on the controls stabilized the V-wing, but not before it had a chance to seriously disorient its pilot. Anakin willed away the oncoming headache and, in a move that he would have once thought absolutely insane, closed his eyes. 

His focus drowned out the howling sound outside the cockpit, the whine of his fighter’s engines, the rattling of the parts that were threatening to break free of the V-wing’s structure. He listened to the guidance of the Force—gently pulling on the yoke here, tugging it there, banking this way or that way or nudging the fighter’s nose up or down. Flying the interceptor in the whirlwind of ice and snow had become second nature. He, the Force, and the ship were one. 

Then the storm was gone.

Anakin opened his eyes to find that his starfighter was gently hovering over a massive circular slab of rock. Before him sat an imposing structure—an elegant stone staircase set into the snow and ice guided his eyes upward to a temple embedded in the cliffside. Surrounded by gargantuan icicles, with snow frosting the peaks of its spires, the temple appeared to have been carved out of the cliff itself. 

At a loss for words, Anakin simply reached forward to toggle the landing cycle of his starfighter. As the V-wing’s foils unfolded and pitched forward, the craft lowered itself down onto the perfectly circular landing pad. The cockpit opened as the fighter touched down, and Anakin stepped out onto the dorsal surface of his interceptor. 

He stared at the ground his fighter was parked on. Engraved into the landing pad was a massive emblem, a symbol he had come to know quite well—the crest of the Jedi Order. The emblem’s wings seemed to cradle Anakin’s fighter; the point of light shooting upward from the center of the symbol appeared to emerge from the ship itself. A low whistle escaped Anakin’s lips.

“We’re here.”

* * *

  
  


Each of Anakin’s footfalls resounded against the stone flooring of the temple, echoing throughout the cavernous rotunda that served as the temple’s lobby. Behind him, light streamed through the archway entry; wisps of snow fluttered in before settling on the ground. 

The temple was much warmer than Anakin had expected, though the warmth seemed otherworldly, as if it came from within him. He could still see his breath each time he exhaled, but he’d removed his winter coat and left it near the door. 

A pair of grandiose statues flanked either side of the rotunda; twice the scale of any human, the hooded figures each extended an arm out into the center of the room. Carved representations of lightsabers were cradled into those extended hands and pointed outward at each other—the hilts were etched from stone, the blades of blue ice glinting in the light that flowed through the archway from outside. 

_ No,  _ he thought to himself.  _ Not ice. Kyber.  _

At the rear of the circular room sat another archway much like the first. It was smaller, though decorated with identical carvings. Anakin felt a distinct  _ pull  _ from the small entry. Something was beckoning him to enter.  _ The crystal cave.  _

Gritting his teeth, the man reached down to his belt and pulled a small commlink free with his mechanical hand. He brought it up to his lips, keying the talk button. “I’m headed in, Voxel. If I don’t come back, just fly—”

He was interrupted by a harsh  _ buzz  _ from the commlink. Anakin rolled his eyes. “I know it is. As I was saying, if I don’t come back just fly the V-wing back to the  _ Coelacanth _ . Tell Karin I said she should have it.” 

Another beep from the commlink elicited a slight chuckle. “No, she probably doesn’t.” With that matter taken care of, he thumbed the commlink off and returned it to his belt. 

He had to concede to himself that it was unlikely he’d end up dying on this journey. The cave was supposed to be uninhabited. The biggest danger would come when he’d finished assembling the lightsaber. Put together incorrectly, he’d been told, lightsabers posed a risk of exploding upon activation. 

“But you won’t have to worry about that, Skywalker,” he muttered to himself. “The  _ Dancer  _ hasn’t blown up yet. No reason this thing will.” Reaching into the bag, he extracted the incomplete lightsaber hilt and cradled it in his mechanical hand. 

As if responding to the incomplete weapon’s presence, the crystal blades of the Jedi statues shone even brighter, causing beams of light to illuminate the cave entrance arch like spotlights shining on a stage. 

Anakin snorted. “Subtle.”  _ So much for the Order being hidden guardians. _ Glancing up at one statue’s hood-obscured face, he gave the sculpture a slight nod before marching confidently toward the cave entrance. 

It was like stepping into another world. Gone were the stark harshness of the outside, the strikingly carved elegance of the temple rotunda. Jagged formations lined the walls and ceiling of the passageway, which seemed to stretch into infinity. The space had a cool blue hue to it—the sunlight of Ilum’s surface was gone entirely, in its place the crystalline structures on the wall gently glowing. 

Involuntarily, Anakin exhaled in awe. The sound carried down the cavern, echoing off the sharp formations that jutted in all directions. It grew in volume with each reverberation, swelling until it filled the whole passageway. Then, in an instant, it ceased to exist. 

In its place, a strange energy worked its way up Anakin’s body. Beginning beneath his boots, the electric buzz darted upward until it was dancing across all of him. The energy gave him a gentle tug, beckoning him to move. He took a step forward with the energy—as if it were guiding him and he were guiding it, working together in perfect harmony. Anakin Skywalker and the Force were one. 

This continued for some time. Together Anakin and the energy moved deeper into the cave, strolling past several formations of crystal that seemed to reach out from the walls and into the passageway. It was as if they were offering themselves to Anakin. But as he eyed each one in turn, he felt nothing but the urge to keep moving. 

So keep moving he did—the energy and Anakin together—until at last they reached a dead end.

He’d been walking for hours. Or was it days? Maybe minutes? Time was an illusion in the cave. It didn’t matter how long it had been. He felt no exhaustion, no need to rest. There was only Anakin, the Force . . . and the crystals.

The dead end of the cave seemed purpose-built to house the crystal formation nestled in its center. A shrine of clear, multifaceted crystal columns surrounded a much smaller growth. This growth glowed a cool blue and emitted a high-pitched whine that drew Anakin’s focus to it. Soon it became as though nothing else existed.  _ This is the one,  _ a voice from within him said. He couldn’t be certain whether it was his own, or that of the Force. 

A hand of metal reached forward to pluck the crystal free. As it was torn from its resting place, it crackled gently and began to glow—a side effect of the electrostatic impulses from his mechanical hand, Anakin would later realize. Crystal pinched between thumb and forefinger, Skywalker used his free hand to once again extract the incomplete lightsaber from the leather pouch slung across his body. 

Lowering himself to the cave floor, Anakin crossed his legs and set the kyber crystal on the ground in front of him. Grasping each end of the lightsaber with a hand, he quickly twisted the ends in opposite directions. A sharp  _ snap  _ reverberated throughout the cave chamber, and with a satisfied nod Anakin pulled on the emitter end of the saber. 

A cylindrical amalgamation of wires and power cells and focusing lenses slid out of the chrome housing, the latter of which Anakin set aside. In his left hand he held the body of his lightsaber; his right moved to pick up the saber’s heart. The kyber crystal glowed again as mechanical digits grasped it. Anakin brought the crystal toward the saber’s inner workings, moving it gingerly toward the hole in the center clearly meant to hold it. His hands shook as they drew closer to each other; he stopped, pulled them apart, and took a deep breath. 

“Steady, Skywalker,” he whispered to himself. His voice echoed throughout the crystalline cavern, filling the space with sound once again. “You’ve got this.” He inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled again. Brought his hands together once more. The crystal  _ clicked  _ into place within the lightsaber’s structure, and Anakin froze. 

He could feel the saber’s power cell heat up as the kyber crystal’s energy spread throughout the device. The crystal pulsed briefly as a jolt from the saber’s power cell coursed through it. Breathing a sigh of relief, Anakin reached for the lightsaber’s housing and slid it back over the weapon’s inner workings. 

Minutes later, after he had finished attaching a handful of buttons and dials and switches to the outside of the lightsaber, Anakin rose to his feet.  _ Okay,  _ he thought,  _ time to test this thing.  _ His mechanical thumb gently grazed the surface of the saber’s activation switch—Anakin could feel his heart rate spike as he prepared to bring his lightsaber to life for the very first time.

The sensation that someone was standing behind him caused Anakin to pause and remove his thumb from the lightsaber. Clutching the weapon in his off hand, he lowered it to his side and turned around. 

A woman clothed in a grease-stained beige tunic was standing in the center of the cave passage. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail; her arms hung awkwardly at her side. Her face was stained with ash and carried a look of deep pain. “Anakin?” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. 

“Mom?” 

  
  


* * *

“I’m sorry,” the woman managed as tears welled in her eyes. “I . . . I’m so sorry, Anakin.”

“No,” he urged her, reaching a hand out in her direction, sudden heat and nausea and fear flaring up within him in one sickening jolt. “You have nothing to be sorry for.  _ I’m  _ sorry. I should have been there with you, I could have done something!”

The woman shook her head slowly, then turned to walk away. Anakin stood for a moment, frozen in place and on the verge of hyperventilating. He forced himself to calm down, took a handful of deep breaths, and attached his lightsaber to his belt.  _ She’s here for a reason. You just have to . . . just have to find out what it is. _ He then moved to follow the woman. 

“Mom, hang on,” he shouted after her as he jogged to catch up. “How are you here?” His mechanical arm stretched out and placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder. As the robotic hand gripped her tightly, she turned to face Anakin, her eyes almost staring  _ through _ him at something galaxies away.

He repeated the question: “How are you here?” 

She cocked her head to the side, seemingly confused by the query. “You brought me with you,” she replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

Anakin squinted in bewilderment. “I . . .” 

A low rumble sounded throughout the cavern, tearing Anakin from his train of thought. Glancing in the direction the noise was coming from, he noticed a harsh orange glow—and a jet of flame growing ever closer. He could feel the heat building in the cave. The woman behaved as though she didn’t notice—or didn’t care.

“Mom, look out!” Anakin shouted, embracing the woman and spinning around to put himself between her and the fast-approaching wall of fire.

The flames slammed into Anakin’s back, throwing him to the ground and carrying him through the cave passage. He smacked into a wall; the crystals growing from it scratched at his face and arms. Preoccupied by the pain, it took him a moment to notice that the woman had disappeared.

An anguished cry escaped Anakin’s mouth as he rolled over on the cave floor. It was then he realized that it had somehow transformed. Gone was the blue-tinted crystalline cave floor. It had been replaced by a strangely soft surface—the dirt carried an unmistakable earthy scent, one Anakin had no doubt he would recognize until the day he died. 

Had Abbadon. 

Skywalker leapt to his feet. The soft cave floor sloped upward into glistening walls damp with moisture and glowing with tendrils of the cave planet’s memory lichen. People milled about—some strangers, others he recognized from his trips to Jira Grotto and the nights in the refugee camp. Every one of them went about their business as though he weren’t even there. 

Then the Had Abbadon cavern erupted into chaos. Sections of the walls exploded; soldiers poured out from the openings brandishing blaster rifles. A thousand copies of the same man opened fire on the crowd, mowing down civilians as lances of red danced about the room. But before Anakin could reach for his lightsaber, the floor gave way underneath him and he fell through. 

Now he was standing in the cockpit of the  _ Spice Dancer _ . Padmé was strapped into the pilot’s seat, expertly weaving the craft in between ships Anakin didn’t recognize.  _ Pirates? New clone fighters?  _ It didn’t matter. As they fired on the  _ Dancer _ , he reached out his hand and gave a mental tug. 

Two of the ships careened into each other, exploding in a brilliant fireball as they collided. “Thanks,” Padmé panted, not taking her eyes off the space outside the ship. “For all the good it’ll do. Bring down one of those things, two more pop up in its place.” 

“What are they?” he asked. She seemed not to hear him. 

“We’ve got a missile lock!” she shouted, wrenching the  _ Dancer  _ hard to starboard. As the ship banked, Anakin fell toward the bulkhead. . . and passed right through it. He sailed through space outside the  _ Spice Dancer  _ and watched in horror as a barrage of missile fire tore through the ship. 

Then the chaos of the space battle folded in on itself, and he was in a smoking ruin. Collapsed stone columns lay strewn across an open courtyard, somehow on fire. In the center of it all, dozens of lightsabers wielded by dozens of Jedi glowed in the smoky haze. Most were blue or green, but one stood out against the crowd. 

It shone a bloody red. 

The frozen diorama of the one Sith against the numerous Jedi suddenly sprung into motion. The black-cloaked figure brandishing the red lightsaber moved expertly through the crowd, slicing up one Jedi after another. 

Anakin screamed. 

He stretched out his hand, and his lightsaber flew from his belt and smacked into the artificial palm. The weapon ignited instantly, washing Skywalker in the sky-blue glow as its  _ snap-hiss  _ somehow drowned out the clashes of every other lightsaber in the courtyard. He sprinted toward the lone Sith, pushing other figures out of the way in a desperate effort to reach the cloaked man before he caused any more damage. 

Then, like a strike of lightning, blue and red sabers collided. The  _ crackle  _ sent sparks spraying across the courtyard, and Anakin pushed back against the pressure the Sith was applying to the saber lock. He stumbled forward as the figure broke the lock and leapt back—the black hood obscuring the Sith’s face remained umoving as he stalked backward, away from Anakin.

Fury welled up within him, and his blue blade became a blur as he rushed toward the Sith. Each strike hit harder than the next—the Sith was clearly wearing down under the continued pressure, and yet Anakin did not sense fear or worry from the man. Instead, as he hit harder, the Sith seemed to only grow more satisfied. 

Anakin froze as the blades of red and blue sizzled against each other, then took a step back. He forced himself to settle down, called out to the Force to bring him peace and calm. Though he kept his lightsaber activated, Anakin held it out to the side and angled it down toward the ground. He was defenseless, open to attack. But his anger was gone. 

And in that moment, the Sith turned to dust.

* * *

Everything melted around Anakin. The burning columns, the dead Jedi, all of it vanished. In its place, the temple rotunda faded into existence. Anakin stood at the center of it, his lightsaber still lit as he held it outward, just as he had in surrender to the Sith figure. 

The stone floor felt real beneath his boots; the warmth of the rotunda was a welcome embrace. On either side of Anakin, the towering cloaked statues extended their weapons toward him. The massive crystal blades glowed blue in the Ilum sunset, but the Jedi’s lightsaber shone brightest of all. 


	7. Homecoming

The stranger’s face, already dark, was further obscured by the hood he wore. Traces of the bar’s neon light pierced through the shadows just enough to illuminate his eyes—a brown so deep they were almost black—and the stern cast of his expression. No doubt to a small-time dealer, the cloak-and-dagger look would be properly intimidating.

Karst Delth was not a small-time dealer. “Enough with the monk costume,” the Weequay said, rolling his fingers in a  _ Come on already _ gesture. “I like to know what my clients look like.”

Slowly, not out of hesitation but lazy confidence, the stranger reached up and eased the hood back. Underneath it were a shaved skull and a face that seemed to be carved out of granite, hard and severe. The man was relatively young, but he had the bearing of someone who’d been made much older, whether that was through suffering or experience. Probably the former, Karst thought, if he was after the Weequay’s product.

“So,” the stranger said. “Business?”

“Name first,” Karst replied, swiping a hand across his gnarled forehead—it was Nar Shaddaa’s wet season, and the humidity was drawing sweat.

“Tellest,” said the human, the glint in his eye saying with remarkable clarity,  _ We both know it’s not my real name, but what are you going to do about it? _

Fair enough—Karst himself wasn’t actually named Karst, after all, and didn’t begrudge customers their aliases as long as they gave him something. “Well, Tellest,” Karst said, pausing to take a pull at his whiskey, “our mutual acquaintance tells me you’re looking for a new supplier.”

Tellest nodded, rolled his own glass around in his fingers without drinking. “Thanks to you, actually.” This was stated without judgment. “Twerp got high on his own supply, got his street corners mixed up, ended up selling on your turf. Got a blaster bolt to the forehead.”

“Condolences.” It was a familiar story; the small-time dealers had no impulse control, and sampling one hit of hex was all it took to go from breaking even to destitute, best-case scenario. More often, you’d end up dead, either from an accidental overdose or doing something stupid. “Fortunate for you, though, if things work out. Getting by with one of those small-time dealers is no good. They make mistakes, they’re unreliable, you get diluted product . . .”

“Tell me about it.” Finally, Tellest did something with his drink besides play with it, tilting his head back and letting the shot slide smoothly down his throat. This done, he raised his eyebrows. “So. If things work out?”

“Well, we can’t just start up our business relationship right away, you understand. You come recommended by Halth, but I still only met you five minutes ago.” Karst rubbed at his forehead again— _ God _ , it was humid in here—and finished his drink. “I didn’t get where I am by being trusting. So, Tellest, if you’re looking to further our partnership, I’d like you to take a little walk with me.”

“And if I’d rather not?” Tellest asked, steepling his fingers, his voice flat with his lack of concern.

“Then we pay for our drinks and walk away, no harm done. But then you don’t get your hex, of course.” The Weequay shrugged. “All the same to me if you’d prefer to stick with a small-timer. Just know that he’ll probably be OD’d or aired out within six months.”

For the first time, something shifted in Tellest’s expression—his lips twisted into the barest hint of a smirk. “I like the way you make your threats, Karst. They’re not even threats, really, just inevitabilities.” Motioning at the bartender droid, he kept his eyes fixed on the Weequay. “I’m going to enjoy a refill, and then let’s play it your way.”

Leaning forward on his elbows, Karst considered the human. The insolence was concerning—the Weequay preferred his customers suitably cowed—but at the same time, Tellest’s lack of anxiousness was . . . interesting.

“Take your time,” the Weequay said, signaling the droid to fill him up again as well. “We’ve got all night.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the two of them had become six—as Karst and Tellest had ambled out of the bar, four of Karst’s people had fallen in on either side of them, flanking the human. Each kept his hand dangling light and easy over his sidearm; Tellest glanced briefly to the left and the right, then returned his gaze forward. “And here I thought we were getting along so well.”

“Oh, they’re for your protection as much as mine,” Karst replied. “I’m a dangerous man to be seen on the streets with.” Not really a lie, that—in the last year someone had tried to kill him three separate times. None had come close, of course, but it paid to be paranoid.

Tellest shrugged as all six of them squeezed into Karst’s airspeeder. “Just let me know when to duck, then.”

Over the brief flight, the human said nothing. From time to time, Karst would flick a glance at the rearview mirror to see Tellest simply sitting there, stony. The Weequay didn’t like this. Even hex users in the mildest stages of addiction tended to be twitchy when they weren’t high and lethargic when they were; the human was calm, watchful, even. It wasn’t the behavior of someone who was desperate for a fix now that his dealer had shuffled off this mortal coil.

Halth wouldn’t have sent someone he knew to be dangerous. He’d seen what had happened to the last person who’d tried to engineer a coup against Karst via proxy—the proxy had been tortured long enough for him to give up who’d hired him, and the person who’d done the hiring had been tortured for substantially longer. Which meant this guy was probably not a  _ direct _ threat. More likely he was looking to start dealing himself, using Karst as his supplier. Hell, maybe he’d had the small-timer amble over into Karst’s territory on purpose, opening up a vacuum that needed filling.

Still, that wasn’t happening. If Tellest had a reason to hide his intentions, the Weequay didn’t want to work with him. He could have simply turned the human down flat, but giving him a beatdown after getting him to reveal his intentions would discourage him from pulling a similar stunt again. Besides, Karst found the man intriguing. Not a lot intrigued him these days.

As the speeder angled itself toward the high-rise’s parking garage, Tellest raised his eyebrows. “A little run-down for a supplier of your caliber, isn’t it?”

“Good things come to those who wait,” Karst replied. “In a multitude of senses.”

Once again, the tiniest of smirks formed on the human’s face. He tipped his head in acknowledgment, then returned to simply staring out the front windshield.

* * *

If Tellest was alarmed by sound of the apartment’s door loudly locking itself behind them, nothing on his face betrayed it. His eyes drifted up, down, left, right, taking in the place. It was, put kindly, a dump—Karst kept it that way by design. The floors were bare, the lighting on the flickering side of ambient. Moisture stains covered the wall and ceiling. And the windows were obscured entirely by blackout curtains.

There were some other quirks that weren’t immediately visible to the naked eye. Namely that the room’s four walls were completely soundproof, and that the door was equipped with a scanner that would emit a silent alarm if any weapons were detected. Said alarm had remained silent when Tellest had strolled through, which put Karst substantially more at ease. No assassination plans, then, as he’d thought. Just a ripoff.

“So, Tellest,” the Weequay said as his men spread out, one to each corner of the room, “how long’s it been since that asshole died on you and left you without any supply? Have to admit, I don’t remember when we popped him.”

Finishing his sweep of the room, Tellest gave a minute shrug. “Three weeks ago? I still had some left over, so it’s been about a week.”

“Still, though. You’ve gotta be hurting right about now.” Before the human could acknowledge this, Karst reached into his pocket and pulled out a cylinder about the length of his hand. Though it had been sitting in his jacket for a few hours now, the metal was still cool to the touch.

Was it his imagination, or did something in Tellest’s expression suffer the tiniest . . .  _ crack _ at the sight of the inhaler? Nothing major—the man didn’t slide from stoic to raging junkie—but something behind his eyes leapt at the metal inhaler’s gleam.

Now  _ this _ was getting a bit more interesting.

“100% A-grade,” Karst said, toying with the inhaler. “Cut just enough so it won’t kill you. I don’t use, myself, but I’m told the high is unbelievable. So.” He held it up to the flickering fluorescent light, letting it gleam. “You want a hit?”

Tellest swallowed—visibly, his throat working up and then down—and then something slammed down across his visage. When he spoke, it was in the same tone of voice he’d used all evening, calm and self-possessed and a bit bored with the whole affair. “Where’d you happen to get that?”

For the first time that evening, Karst’s men made a noise—a muddy chuckle that lasted for a few moments, emanating out from all corners of the room. The Weequay’s heart beat just a bit faster—not with nerves, but with anticipation. “Aww, come on,” he said, showing his slightly yellowed teeth in a grin. “You know how this goes. I tell you that, you try to cut me out and go straight to them. It’s a business built on middlemen, Tellest. Now come on, take a hit.”

“I don’t like to jam something up my nose til I know where it’s from,” the human replied evenly. “Bad product, risk of infections—you know how this goes.” His inflection changed on that last sentence—while his face stayed the same, his voice filled with something almost contemptuous. “So. Where’d you get it from?”

Karst Delth got the distinct feeling that he was being mocked.

The Weequay nodded once, sharply. His men started to converge on Tellest, ambling in toward the center of the room. “Well, Tellest, I’m afraid I can’t do business with a user who’s afraid of a little hex. Especially a strain that everyone else would sell me their soul to get. So really, I’m not asking.” With his free hand, he brushed his jacket aside, allowing the human a glimpse of his own sidearm. “Take. A hit. We don’t want any unpleasantness.”

“Well, Karst,” Tellest said, seemingly unconcerned by the four blaster-wielding men who were now only a few paces away, “I think I  _ do _ want a little unpleasantness, if it’s all the same to you. So. Who’s your supplier?”

The Weequay sighed. The banter had already lost its fun, and had at any rate served its purpose—that eager gleam in Tellest’s eyes notwithstanding, it was clear that he wanted in on Karst’s territory, and that he was incredibly stupid. “Break his arms,” he said to the guards. “We’ll shoot him after we figure out who he’s working for.”

As soon as the words left Karst’s mouth, Tellest—twitched.

He didn’t go for a weapon. Didn’t bolt for the door. Didn’t so much as shift his stance. He just— _ twitched. _

A horrible wet  _ snapping _ sound cracked like a slugthrower shot, reverberating throughout the room. Then Karst’s men were all on the floor, and they were screaming.

Tellest never broke eye contact.

“Your supplier,” he said. “Please.”

Karst was still trying to process what had happened, but you didn’t get as far as he had in this business without being able to think on your feet. Before the  _ Please _ had fully finished, the Weequay was drawing his blaster (set to stun—he was going to be beating the shit out of whoever this human was for a  _ long _ time).

A smaller, sharper echo of that wet  _ snap _ sounded again,  _ much _ closer to Karst. Without warning, his left leg suddenly couldn’t hold his weight anymore—he missed his grip on his blaster, toppled to the ground.

And then the pain hit, and he was screaming too.

_ My LEG—bastard broke my goddamned LEG—  _ he thought incoherently to himself, despite the fact that the human was still standing in the same spot and couldn’t have  _ touched _ him, much less broken anything.

“Now,” Tellest said, his tone suddenly, falsely jovial in a way that enraged Karst even through the sudden flame of agony in his leg, “I’m not up on Weequay biology, but legs that long have to have a lot of bones in them. That’s a lot more for me to break to find out what I want to know. And, as I just demonstrated”—and as he said this he was striding forward, and kneeling down, so his eyeline was even with Karst’s—“breaking bones is a bit of a specialty of mine.” His smirk, formerly just barely there, was broad and plain as day now, reeking of contempt. “So.” He nodded at the inhaler, still in Karst’s right hand. “Where’d you get that from?”

The Weequay hauled himself up on his elbows, panting hard. His eyes flicked down to the blaster on his waist, just in time to see Tellest pluck it from its holster and toss it across the room. “Go to hell,” he managed to hiss.

Nonchalantly, the human smacked Karst’s leg at the breakage point. A white-hot sheet of pain flared up before his eyes, and he screamed again. When his eyes slid back into focus, he watched Tellest slide the fake, jolly smirk right off his face, leaving behind ice. “I’ll level with you—that bit about Weequay biology was just chitchat. I actually know for a fact that you have exactly 348 bones in your body. I can see all of them right now, just beneath your skin. I know the weakest points in every single one. Right now, you have 347 unbroken pieces of skeleton. Start talking, or every ten seconds you lose another one.”

Another sound like a dry stick splitting in two sounded from across the room, followed by another shriek. “See, now,” Tellest said loudly, his eyes never leaving Karst’s, “when you try to go for your blasters, I get nervous. You don’t want me nervous. Any of you reaches for metal again, I break your damn neck.”

Five seconds passed. Ten. Karst felt the sweat rolling down his face, heard his own frantic breathing. Said nothing.

Sighing, Tellest leaned a bit closer. “I was hoping we’d still be able to be productive, Karst, but you’re making it difficult, I have to tell you.” And then there was a sudden, nauseating pressure on the Weequay’s right middle finger, hard and absolute and inexorable. He could actually  _ feel _ it starting to shatter, bending, feathering closer and closer to the breaking point—

“All  _ right _ !” he bellowed. “ _ SHIT! I’ll tell you. _ ”

The pressure faded away, and overwhelmingly, humiliatingly, Karst wanted to cry.

Tellest gave an approving nod. “Thought you’d come around. So. Your supplier.”

“Gardulla,” he rasped out. “It’s Gardulla, I buy from Gardulla.”

Triumph loomed in the near-black eyes hovering above him.

Karst could feel a rivulet of drool starting to roll from the corner of his mouth, mingling with the sweat. He licked at it, hating himself.

From above, Tellest spoke again. “You her only customer?”

“She”—another flash of pain tore at his leg and he inhaled sharply—“she distributes to two or three of the other big cartels too.”

“So the tales about the hex getting piped in from offworld are all her doing, then.”

Knowing how much money he was giving up, how utterly screwed he was rendering himself should Gardulla ever find out this conversation took place, Karst hesitated. But then he felt that pressure on his finger again, and he was talking.

“Yeah, yeah. The casinos are all a front, she has labs underneath ‘em churning out product. It’s synthesized.”

Slowly, the human nodded, as if this confirmed a theory he’d had for a long time. “Well then.”

Through his teeth, the Weequay managed to hiss, “Look, if you’re a cop, none of this is gonna be admissible. Torturing hearsay information out of me and then trying to build an investigation?” Gulping air, he continued: “You’re stupid, but you’re not that stupid.”

Another smile surfaced on the human’s face, the first genuine one he’d made all evening. It was feral, and smug, and animal, and the fear it filled Karst with drove out the pain from his leg.

A moment later, the inhaler’s metallic gleam was in Tellest’s right hand. A sudden, shuddering  _ need _ flooded back into his eyes, and within a second the thing was jammed up his nostril. There was a long, chemical  _ hiss _ as the chilled hex mainlined into his head.

Tellest exhaled, then tossed the inhaler aside, junkie euphoria mingled with stony contempt in his gaze. “What makes you think I’m a cop?”

There was another gleam that caught Karst’s eye—another metal cylinder was in the human’s hand, only this one was bigger, with rubber grips along its length. Tellest’s brown thumb pressed against a button, and a shrieking  _ snap-hissssss _ tore into the Weequay’s ears.

His vision was filled again with white heat, but this white was bracketed by violet light.

It was the last thing he ever saw.

* * *

For the first time in weeks, it’s buzzing—the special commlink, the one Qlik from the Temple gave to Mace before he left for Hutt Space. Mace is still blindingly, unbelievably high—Karst Delth hadn’t lied about the hex’s quality, that was for damn sure—and when he answers the comm, he hears his own voice dimly, as though through some veil that’s been wadded into his ears. “Windu.”

“ _ Mace, this is an emergency. You’re being recalled. A ship has been dispatched from the Nar Shaddaa enclave to pick you up and return you to the Temple. _ ”

This carves through the haze, and Mace’s system floods with unwelcome awareness. “I— _ what?  _ What the hell’s going on?”

The voice on the other end of the comm—it sounds like Adi—sounds taken aback. “ _ I—have you not seen any of the news? There’s a war on. _ ”

God, Mace can’t think of the last time he checked the Holonet—it’s been weeks, surely. “What happened?”

“ _ Had Abbadon boiled over. The Confederacy has declared war, Chancellor Palpatine is responding in kind— _ ”

“Chancellor  _ Palpatine _ ?”

“ _ Organa was thrown out after he blundered the Republic into this. Obi-Wan Kenobi was involved, almost got himself killed by a Sith warrior on the planet— _ ” Sudden concern floods into the voice, definitely Adi’s. “ _ Mace, what the hell have you been  _ doing _ there? _ ”

Hauling his consciousness further out of the lovely blanket of hex that had cocooned it, Mace struggles to speak with some level of authority. “Adi, I can’t leave. I just . . .” His train of thought trails off, the news belatedly catching up with him. “A  _ Sith _ ? Kenobi fought a damn  _ Sith _ ?”

“ _ With Qui-Gon Jinn’s help—she barely got out alive. Mace, why can’t you leave? _ ”

“I’ve finally got a link to Gardulla the Hutt,” he says, knowing even as he does so that the words mean nothing to her. “She’s manufacturing the synthesized hexacodone that’s covered the whole system. I have to . . . to stay here.”

“ _ Mace, you can turn your evidence over to the enclave and have them send someone else out. The Temple needs all Knights available to deal with the war. _ ”

He has to make her understand, but there’s no time, and his brain is working too slowly. “Adi, I—no one else can do this, it has to be—”

“ _ Your ride will be there soon. Looking forward to seeing you back at the Temple. _ ”

And with that, she clicks off.

* * *

By the time the shuttle touches down, Mace is coming down, the hex headache pounding at his temples. One of his eyes is running, and he scrubs at it vigorously with his fingers.

Master Roha, the Twi’lek head of the Nar Shaddaa enclave, strides off the boarding ramp, robes swirling around her. If she senses Mace’s condition, she doesn’t say so. She simply lowers her hood, exposing green lekku, and says, “Mace.”

“I can’t go back,” he says simply. “I have to finish this.”

“Adi Gallia informed me of the situation,” Roha says, the lines around her mouth tightening. “Mace, how you got this information on Gardulla I don’t know, and enough has leaked back to us about your usual methods that, if the circumstances were any different, I would be coming here to inform you you were under review. But trillions of people across the galaxy are about to be in a great deal of danger, and they need your help.”

“I’m needed  _ here _ ,” he insists. “Roha, you don’t  _ live _ here. You don’t have to wade through the filth and the suffering and—”

“Windu,” she snaps, danger leaping into her eyes, “don’t you presume to tell me what I do and don’t know about Hutt Space. The enclave isn’t offplanet. I  _ did _ my time as a Knight in this city, and watched it swallow better Jedi than you while I was at it. But you will  _ not _ be going after Gardulla the Hutt in some kind of misguided coup.”

“She’s—”

“The closest thing to a stable authority that Nar Shaddaa has, regardless of how despicable she may otherwise be. If you go after her, you destabilize an entire interplanetary region. Open it up to countless minor gangs struggling to fill the void and who knows what else.”

“You know how young some of these hex junkies are?” Mace asks, drawing closer until their faces are only feet apart. “Youngest I’ve ever met was nine. Little Rodian girl.” He struggles to keep his voice level. “She was all covered in sores, crying her head off because she couldn’t get what she needed.”

“Don’t try to use suffering to turn this around. If it comes to that, I could give you a list of the people  _ you’re  _ alleged to have ruined over your last year here.” She holds up her fingers and counts off. “Beating, torture, death. What you’re doing isn’t mitigating suffering, it’s  _ reveling _ in it.”

“If you knew the people I had to do that to—”

“Don’t.” The disgust in the single syllable shuts his mouth.

Roha stares at him as though she doesn’t know him—and, in a very real sense, she doesn’t. “Shatterpoint is a gift that’s supposed to bring wisdom. Let you weigh the situation and find the route that causes the least harm. If you would use it properly, you would be able to see that Gardulla is a shatterpoint for this  _ whole system _ . Instead, you’re using it like a hammer.”

“See,” Mace replies, his voice rising, “it’s funny you say that, because I don’t seem to recall you  _ having _ the gift of shatterpoint. So please, enlighten me as to how I’m supposed to use it.” His simmering fury is burning away any traces of hex left in his system, leaving him fiery and clean.

Rather than rising to the bait, Roha simply stares at him. “If this were any other time, you’d be locked in the enclave’s brig right now for a tribunal. But there’s a war on. I am not asking you, Mace, I am telling you. You are being brought in to Coruscant. This place is poison for you, and I don’t intend to watch it eat you entirely because you’re too shortsighted to see that.”

She’s wrong, Mace thinks to himself, because if he were as far gone as she claims he is, he would bludgeon her into unconsciousness without a second thought and go back to his mission. Instead, he simply matches her stare with his own granite-hard gaze and says, “That little girl I mentioned? She died a couple of days after I first met her. It was Gardulla who made the hex she was hooked on.”

Sorrow rises in Roha’s eyes, and part of Mace hates himself for using that little girl as nothing more than a bargaining chip. “Every day,” she says, “the clones are wiping out innocent fathers and mothers and children in the thousands. So go back to Coruscant. Help save them.”

And because Mace is still a Jedi—no matter what he’s seen, what he’s done—he goes with her.

* * *

Looking down on the planet as the ship breaks atmosphere, Mace Windu longs for a hit of hex more than anything else in the world. He’s still got the cartridges he’s been rationing out from his old dealer’s stash, but he can’t take one in open view of the others onboard, and so he simply sits in silence and looks down on Nar Shaddaa and feels guilt and hatred eat his insides.

Roha was half-right. Gardulla is a shatterpoint. But not all shatterpoints are there to be protected, he knows; not all destruction causes ruin.

Sometimes it’s necessary to break the old if the new ever has a chance to form.

He can see the Hutt’s shatterpoint even now through the Force, a spidery knot of glowing white heat sitting at the center of the planet and spreading its tendrils out to touch the rest of the system just as surely as the weak point in Karst’s femur had spread throughout the bone. Just the right amount of force—a simple, solid tap of the hammer—and she would crack.

Instead, he’s watching her slowly vanish into the distance.

And so Mace Windu leaves a private war, and voyages toward the center of a larger one.


	8. Master and Apprentice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today’s chapter brings _Fragments: Part One_ to a close! Thanks for following along.
> 
> Next up in the saga of _The Skywalker_ Legend is our take on _Episode II—The Shadow Within—_ which will begin publication in late January. We look forward to continuing the journey with you!

Obi-Wan Kenobi spent the days leading up to Anakin’s official induction into the Jedi Order . . . well, fretting, mostly. The initial rush of happiness at his friend’s acceptance of his offer had quickly slid into realization that he had no idea how to teach someone anything.

He couldn’t be Yoda. Serving as nothing more than a pale imitation of his master would be an insult both to the wizened alien and to Anakin. But he couldn’t exactly fall back on military experience, either—martial training was as far away from learning about the Force as it was possible to get.

And so, when the ceremony had reached its end and he and Anakin walked down the Temple halls alone, Obi-Wan still had nothing to say.

“So . . .” Anakin said, clearing his throat. “Do we find some meditation chamber and hole up there? Close our eyes and feel the, um, universe?”

Chuckling, the general sighed. “Well, I suppose it’s good that you know as little about being a student as I do about being a teacher. Makes me look not  _ quite _ so bad.”

“Well then, maybe we grab some lunch to start. Enjoy not having to use the  _ Coelacanth _ ’s galley while we can.”

Yes, that was the other problem with the whole arrangement. Shore leave for the two of them was officially over in two days. Soon, General Kenobi and his new “personal aide/shuttle pilot” would be back with Typhoon Division and on their way to break a siege at the edge of the Outer Rim. Definitely a bit removed from Obi-Wan’s time sitting in Yoda’s hut on Dagobah while the rain came down.

“There’s a pleasant little diner a few districts over—we can probably be there within the hour,” the general eventually said, when the hole of silence between the two of them had widened to awkwardness. “My treat, to celebrate the induction.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” his new apprentice said, grasping onto the opportunity for banter like a drowning man and attempting his usual crooked grin. “No mind-tricking me into picking up the bill.”

“They only work on the weak-minded.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

Putting on a grin of his own, Obi-Wan replied, “Now  _ that _ I can answer.”

* * *

For “homework” that evening, he tasked his new student with memorizing the Jedi Code: 

_Emotion, yet peace._ __  
_Ignorance, yet knowledge._ __  
_Passion, yet serenity._ __  
_Chaos, yet harmony._ _  
_ __Death, yet the Force.

The next morning, sitting in the courtyard, Anakin said: “Gotta tell you, I know what all those words  _ mean _ but I’m having a hard time seeing how they work in practice.”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “What specifically is giving you trouble?”

“Emotion, yet peace,” the pilot quoted back to his teacher, absentmindedly rolling the fingers of his mechanical hand back and forth. “I get the sentiment, but it’s impossible to have both at the same time.”

“It can be difficult to grasp at first, I admit—”

“Like, on Had Abbadon,” Anakin cut him off, almost as if he hadn’t noticed his master speaking. “No offense, but you didn’t seem particularly peaceful when we were fighting off crawlers. Or piloting out of the caves. Or, well . . . most of it, really.”

Ruefully smiling, Obi-Wan said, “Well, like any idealist, I often fail to live up to my own ideals.”

“Or take me, for that matter. When I do . . . whatever it is I do with the Force, it’s not because I’m peaceful. I split that worm’s head because it was about to kill  Padmé. When I pulled off that hotwiring thing with the speeder, I was so pumped on adrenaline I almost couldn’t think straight.” He shook his head. “If I’d been  _ calm _ , none of that would have worked.”

“You seem to be forgetting your biggest accomplishment,” Obi-Wan put in, raising a finger in what he strongly hoped wasn’t a pretentious gesture. “Granted, I was barely conscious at the time, but when you sent the Zabrak flying out of the  _ Helios _ , I sensed no fear or anger. Just peace, and acceptance. You connected with the Force so purely at that moment that there was almost no self left to experience emotion.”

“But the whole reason that happened was because I had to save you and Padmé from dying,” the pilot countered, his brow furrowing. “If I had no emotions about the situation, wouldn’t I have been fine with us all getting killed?”

“And therein lies the paradox.”

Anakin raised his eyebrows. “Did you just say ‘therein’ at me?”

_ Well, this is going wonderfully. _

Sighing, Obi-Wan cast his eyes about the room, trying to think of a way to make things plainer. “Look, remember the story of when I brought the  _ Helios _ down on Had Abbadon in the first place?”

“Oh, I’ve heard it a few times by now.”

“I’m a war hero, get used to it.” Leaning a bit further forward, letting his chin rest on his hands, the general resumed: “Let me tell you, I was full of emotions in the moments leading up to what happened. I was terrified the ship would explode with me on it, that I’d failed Bail. Saddened that I’d probably never see anyone I was close to again. Angry at myself for letting the situation happen in the first place. Those emotions all drove my actions up to the point of no return. But then, when I knew what needed to be done, there was a . . . purifying of some kind. The Force took over. I was able to sit on the bridge, and close my eyes, and not worry about burning to death, because what was going to happen was going to happen.”

“. . . huh.” Anakin looked like he was trying very hard to appear to understand this.

_ Please, please don’t let my very first lesson be a  _ complete _ failure.  _ “Look. When we say ‘peace,’ we don’t mean that the person who’s peaceful is some kind of zombie or puppet without any desires. The Jedi Order is  _ built _ on desires—the desire for justice, for ending suffering. And it’s just not true that the Force  _ can’t _ be summoned through emotion. You’re proof of that.”  _ And it’s why you’re so scared,  _ he added to himself. “But perfect balance comes when you recognize that things will be as the Force wills them, and let it guide your actions rather than trying to use your emotions to guide  _ it _ .”

Nodding, Anakin blew out a frustrated breath. “I get it, I do. I just . . . I don’t know  _ how _ I did what I did facing the Zabrak. It’s not just something I can turn on.”

Placing what he hoped was a reassuring hand on his student’s shoulder, Obi-Wan said, “None of us can, Anakin. No Jedi is perfect. But it’s about trying to get there more than it is about actually arriving.”

Another nod, this time accompanied by silence. Obi-Wan sighed, and went back to meditating, and silently asked the Force if it could please throw him a bone.

* * *

“Ouch!” Anakin barked, dropping his stick with a clatter and bringing the knuckles of his flesh hand to his mouth. “Easy, huh?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Obi-Wan said, grimacing and drawing back his own stick. “I’m used to the training sabers. Wish we could’ve risked bringing a couple along.”

“I mean, it’s not like the crew don’t  _ know _ , right?” his apprentice grumbled, gesturing across the expanse of the  _ Coelacanth _ ’s hangar with his mechanical arm. “We’re practicing swordfighting and you got sent to Had Abbadon to take out an entire fleet by yourself.”

As a deckhand walked by, she gave the pair of them a quizzical look, then turned and hurried away. The general sighed. “In practice I suppose it’s an open secret among the crew, but technically only Cody knows. And there’s a difference between  _ suspecting _ and watching the general and his new recruit trading lightsaber blows across the deck.”

“Well, next time just pull your punches a little, huh?” the pilot asked, bending to pick up his practice stick. “Anyway, how could I have avoided that one?”

“You’re too easy to parry,” Obi-Wan replied, twirling the length of wood in his hands. “You keep trying to hit me with just the tip of your blade, so I can just knock you out of the way.”

His apprentice made a frustrated noise. “I’m used to the stun baton. That one only  _ works _ if you use the tip.”

“Well, if you’re going to keep using that tactic,” the general advised, “ _ thrust _ , don’t tap. Although,” he continued, considering, “to be honest I think you’d be better off learning to slash. Your mechanical hand generates a lot of power, I think it would be wasted on fencing technique.” Belatedly realizing the implications of this advice, he blew out a frustrated breath. “Of course, my technique is centered mostly around defense, so I’m not the best person to teach you that style.”

“Hey, as long as you can teach me how to not get my knuckles whacked I’ll consider it a victory,” Anakin replied, bringing his stick back to guard. “Shall we?”

They spent the next fifteen minutes or so circling about their section of the deck, practice swords clacking and  _ thwack _ ing and echoing in the cavernous space. Gradually, the sound was muffled by the hustle and bustle of the crew flooding in and preparing for departure—starfighters fueling up, droids moving cargo back and forth, pilots and flight crews cracking jokes and occasionally shooting bemused looks at the two men playfighting.

As he dodged a swipe from Anakin and retaliated with a quick riposte to the pilot’s ankle—which, he noted with dim satisfaction, Anakin was able to redirect—Obi-Wan felt some of his frustration draining away. Still, though—part of him thought he should have argued harder with Yoda for Anakin to have a better teacher.

A warship was no place for training. This was how it was going to be any time they were on a mission—training either furtively, in closed-off spaces, or half-disguised and drawing raised eyebrows in more open areas. Sure, the Temple would be an option whenever they were between battles, but whether that would be enough . . .

“What about the bird?” Anakin suddenly asked, disengaging and lowering his stick.

Dropping his own, Obi-Wan asked, “What?”

Maybe he was being a bit slow on the uptake, but the two of them were currently standing in the  _ Coelacanth _ ’s shielded main hangar. In orbit. It wasn’t exactly a place a bird could accidentally flutter into.

“The bird you saved when you were a little kid, when you used the Force the first time. Wasn’t that a reaction based on panic that it would die?”

_ Oh. Well, I suppose I should be grateful that he remembers what I say. _

“I . . . it’s difficult to explain.” Because it  _ hadn’t _ been, not really. He’d seen the bird falling, and had  _ known _ in that instant that it was going to die. And with that knowledge, he’d suddenly achieved the power to change the situation.

“What’s this about a bird?” a third voice grumbled. Cody strode over to the two of them, hands held behind his back; if he found their training exercises odd, he didn’t comment. “If one of them ended up getting in here before we left orbit, we’re shooting it before it gets out of the hangar. I’m not repeating what happened last year.”

Before Anakin could ask what happened last year, Obi-Wan hastily replied, “No, Cody, we were just discussing something else. When is the division making the jump?”

“Should be ready to go within the hour, sir. We’ll be at Saleucami in 48 hours.”

“Cody—erm, Commander,” Anakin abruptly asked, “when the  _ Coelacanth _ almost got rammed by that last cruiser above Had Abbadon, did you feel peaceful?”

The commander frowned, looking at Obi-Wan as if to silently ask whether the thrill jockey was pulling his leg. “Can’t say I was feeling enlightened by the experience or anything, Skywalker. But I wasn’t running around the deck screaming, either. We’re soldiers, getting blown up is part of the job. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an inspection to complete.” He turned on his heel and walked off.

Anakin chuckled. “I get the sense that Cody doesn’t like me all that much.”

“He’ll get over it,” Obi-Wan said, mustache twitching in amusement. “I think he just doesn’t like the thought of you being an influence on Sawshark Squadron.”

After a few moments, the smile faded from the apprentice’s face. “Seriously, though. You weren’t concerned about the bird at all?”

The general sighed, idly toying with his stick. “I would have been sad if the bird had fallen, of course. But . . . part of being connected to the Force is knowing that the bird  _ wouldn’t _ have died, not really. All its parts, down to the tiniest atom, would have just become bits and pieces of new life. Transformed, but still there.”

“Sure, that’s easy enough to say.” Anakin sidestepped to let a deckhand by. “But if Padmé were to die, she’d still be dead. I don’t care about the trees and the stars and whatever that she’d turn into. I care about  _ her _ .”

And did Obi-Wan really have an answer for this? Could he pretend that if Qui-Gon or Bail or Cody were to die, he would take it in stride? That when Alma had passed, he’d been able to accept it peacefully and picture her as part of the grass?

After several moments, his silence seemed to embarrass Anakin enough that the pilot hastily tried to change the subject. “You know what, never mind. You wanna teach me how to do that twirling thingy with a lightsaber?”

Obi-Wan automatically shot back his half of the banter, but his mind was elsewhere.  _ There _ has _ to be some way to make him understand. There has to. _

* * *

“ _ Anakin doesn’t do well with abstract stuff, _ ” Padmé’s hologram told him. “ _ Object lessons are better. Like, sure, ‘Don’t lie to your wife’ works fine in theory, but it took him actually lying to me and me getting mad to drive it home. _ ” She raised an eyebrow. “ _ Not that you’d know anything about that, of course. _ ”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, I’m sorry.” Sighing, he considered. “Object lessons are all well and good, but I can’t exactly put someone’s life at risk just to drive home a philosophical point with him.”

His holographic friend shrugged. “ _ Hey, you’re the wizard, not me. Figure it out yourself. _ ”

“Thanks very much for the help,” he grumbled.

“ _ Any time. _ ” Her expression softened somewhat. “ _ Doing okay? _ ”

“Ask me after we’ve lifted this siege. We’re due to arrive at Saleucami in a couple of hours. Honestly, it’s not the siege I’m worried about.” Leaning a bit closer to the hologram, he said, “when I asked Anakin to join the Order, I was expecting a proper master to teach him. I have no idea what I’m doing. I worry I won’t be enough for him.”

“ _ Kenobi, you  _ were  _ there on Had Abbadon, right? Failing into success is what we do. _ ” Her smirk raising her mouth slightly, she continued, “ _ I don’t think any of the three of us have had a single plan go right from the day we were born. We’re the Screw-up Brigade. _ ”

Chuckling, Obi-Wan shook his head. “Not exactly as prestigious as being a member of Typhoon Division, but I suppose it’ll have to do. Thanks for the, erm, encouragement.”

“ _ Well, stay safe, general. And put my husband on the line, would you? _ ”

After Anakin had entered the room and Obi-Wan had retreated to his cabin, he sat on his bed, fingers steepled before his face, thinking.  _ Failing into success is what we do. _

Perhaps, he thought, Padmé should take up Jedi tutoring in her spare time.

* * *

Five minutes to dropout.

Obi-Wan and Anakin stood together on the bridge, looking out the viewport into the swirling blue tunnel of hyperspace. Cody was speaking with Reyes about some technical fault that had just sprung up on their sensor screen; the rest of the bridge crew were performing their various duties to ensure they entered the gravity well smoothly. The two Jedi were doing—nothing, really. Just staring and thinking.

“You know, I  _ kind of _ get it, I think,” Anakin said, without looking away from the viewport. “When I knocked the Zabrak out of the ship, I wasn’t concerned for  _ me _ at all. When all the debris started flying at us, I was . . .  _ interested _ by it. Me almost dying was just a neat little possibility.”

Keeping his eyes fixed on what lay beyond the bridge, Obi-Wan nodded. “I know the feeling.”

“So when it comes to  _ me _ , I’m fine. It’s more just . . . everything else.”

Finally breaking eye contact with the void, the general looked over at his apprentice. The expression on Anakin’s face was troubled, struggling. He was trying so hard to wrap his mind around the concept, and he still just . . . couldn’t.

Obi-Wan gently put a hand on his apprentice’s shoulder. “You know something, Anakin? No Jedi is perfect.”

The pilot turned to look at Obi-Wan, confusion furrowing his forehead. “Um . . . thanks?”

Shaking his head, Obi-Wan said, “No, I’m serious. Qui-Gon is cocky. Master Vos is prideful. I’m too tied up in politics. Master Yoda is . . . well, there must be something wrong with him. His cooking isn’t all that good.”

Anakin snorted. “A fatal flaw for any Jedi, I’m sure.”

“My point is . . .” He hesitated, then pushed through. “Don’t obsess over the Code for now. Or at least not all aspects of it. Some of us spend our whole lives trying to live up to it. And we all fail.”

“So your advice to me is to be a failure.”

The general put his other hand against Anakin’s other shoulder and turned the pilot to face him. “You failed to be dispassionate during the battle of Had Abbadon, and it probably saved my life a dozen times over. Qui-Gon failed to stick to her post on Coruscant, and she helped me to fight off the Sith Lord. I failed to bring down the  _ Helios _ peacefully, and that means that I met you and Padmé. The Force doesn’t simply work through us when we’re perfect. It works through us  _ because _ of who we are, not in spite of it.

“You are exactly the person the Force needs you to be. No more, and no less.”

From behind him, a sudden throat-clearing sounded. Obi-Wan whipped his head around to see Cody standing at his shoulder. “Erm, sir, you might want to keep it down a little.”

Looking around the bridge, he watched every single bridge crew member quickly lower their heads in an effort to look as though they weren’t overhearing anything. Feeling himself flush red, the general quickly said, “Erm, yes, right. How soon to hyperspace dropout?”

“Two minutes, sir.”

He nodded sharply. “Right, then. Carry on.”

As Cody turned and headed back to Reyes, Anakin tilted his head closer to his master and muttered, “Y’know, the same applies to you.”

“Pardon?”

“Padmé told me about your conversation earlier.”

Obi-Wan snorted. “I should have known. Well, I suppose you know that I stole her words of wisdom, then.”

“Hey, you added a lot of other words, at least,” the pilot replied, smirking. Then, sobering: “I wouldn’t get some of this stuff no matter who was telling me about it. I’m glad we’re at least muddling through things together.”

“Sixty seconds to dropout,” Reyes announced sharply. A klaxon began to blare, and the bridge lights came up.

“I suppose that signals the end of the lesson,” Obi-Wan said ruefully, turning his attention back to the viewport. “Let’s win a battle, shall we?”

“Roger that,” said Anakin, the old grin returning to his face. “Can’t guarantee I won’t slip out to join the Sawsharks midway through, just so you know.”

“I suppose direct orders not to wouldn’t help?”

“Well, y’know, my failure to obey direct commands is something the Force can work through.”

It was a lesson his apprentice had taken to entirely too well, Obi-Wan thought to himself. But as the tunnel sharpened to starlines and the  _ Coelacanth  _ emerged from hyperspace, he felt a smile of his own emerging.


End file.
